Bottom of the Ninth

The seventh inning stretch and Elena can't stop running her fingers through her hair, a nervous habit that's betrayed her since childhood. Beside her, David is illuminated by the blue glow of his iPhone, face tilted downward like he's praying to some small rectangular god.

The baseball diamond glows beneath stadium lights, a perfect emerald stage. She remembers him bringing her here five years ago, explaining the intricacies of the sport like it was something sacred. Now she can't recall the last time they talked about anything except logistics - the careful coordination of two lives that had stopped intersecting.

"Crazy game," she tries.

He hums without looking up.

Her phone buzzes in her purse - probably her mother asking about the wedding venue they'd booked and cancelled and rebooked and put on hold. She doesn't check.

"You going to eat that?" David points at her untouched popcorn, and for the first time all night he actually looks at her.

She studies his face in the wash of stadium light. His hair - once thick and dark - is thinning at the temples. They're aging, she realizes. Together but separately.

"I'm not hungry."

He shrugs and takes a handful, eyes already drifting back toward his iPhone.

The crowd roars - a home run, maybe. David doesn't notice. She thinks about the photo album on her own iPhone: their first apartment, rain-soaked laughter, Christmas mornings. When was the last photo of them together? She can't remember.

"Bottom of the ninth," the announcer booms.

David finally pockets the phone. "We should go. Traffic's going to be hell."

Outside, the air is thick with the smell of beer and possibility.

"David."

He turns, and she sees it - the flicker of irritation, the way he checks his pocket like the iPhone might have vanished.

"I know about the messages," she says quietly. "I know you've been seeing someone."

His face settles, like he's finally set down something heavy.

"I was going to tell you."

"When?"

He doesn't answer. The stadium lights flicker behind them.

"The baseball game was your idea," she says. "You said it would be like old times."

"I wanted it to be."

She reaches up and pulls the tie from her hair, letting it fall loose - a small defiance, a small reclamation of something that belongs to her.

The drive home is quiet. When they reach their building, she doesn't follow him inside.

"Where are you going?" he asks, and for once he's not holding the iPhone.

She touches her hair, already planning the cut she's been too afraid to get for years. Something shorter. Something new.

"I don't know," she says, and it's the first true thing she's said all night. "But I'll figure it out."

She walks away without looking back.