Beneath the Surface

I found him at the baseball stadium, section 42, row 8. David sat three rows down, sharing popcorn with a woman I'd never seen before. This wasn't surveillance—I wasn't a spy, though watching him felt like treason. My golden retriever, Buster, pressed against my leg, sensing the tremor in my hands. He'd been our dog, once.

The ninth inning stretched into darkness. Water condensation dripped down my beer bottle like the tears I wouldn't cry. Three years ago, David had left without explanation, no note, no goodbye—just his empty closet and Buster's confused whining.

"Swimming," he'd said during our first date, describing his collegiate sport with fierce pride. I'd imagined him cutting through water, streamlined and relentless. Now he was drowning me from a distance.

The woman leaned her head on his shoulder. Something cracked open in my chest—a reservoir I'd dammed for years. Water flooded my eyes, hot and uncontrolled. I'd spent so long treading water, waiting for answers that never came.

Baseball meant nothing. The spy game I played with myself—driving past his old apartment, his workplace—was exhausting. I stood, gathering Buster's leash. The dog sensed my resolve, ears perking up.

Down three rows. David turned, our eyes meeting across the distance that had grown between us like an ocean. For three seconds, we swam in each other's gaze—regret, recognition, release.

"Sarah," he mouthed.

I didn't respond. Buster and I walked up the steps, toward exit lights, toward whatever lay beyond this water-logged grief. Some depths weren't meant for exploring. Sometimes you just had to surface, and breathe.