Bottom of the Ninth

The baseball game droned on—inning seven, maybe eight. Sarah hadn't looked at him since the second inning, when his iPhone lit up with a work email and she'd made that sound, that quiet exhale that meant *this again*

He watched the fox nosing around the outfield garbage bin, a splash of rust against the manicured green. Nobody else noticed. They were all watching the batter, the牵 for something miraculous.

"Remember the goldfish?" Sarah said suddenly, her voice flat.

He blinked. "What?"

"The goldfish. Emma's birthday. Three years ago. You promised you'd pick it up."

His thumb found the smooth glass of his iPhone, the comforting infinity scroll, the escape hatch. "I forgot. Work was crazy that week."

"You were at the bar with Mark." She stood up, dusting popcorn salt from her jeans. "I saw your credit card statement."

The fox caught something—a hot dog bun, maybe—and trotted away, unconcerned with the eighth-inning stretch, with marriages falling apart, with the lies we tell ourselves until we can't anymore.

"Sarah—"

"I'm done waiting for you to show up, David. I'm done." She walked up the aisle, not looking back, while the crowd roared for a home run that meant nothing at all.

He sat alone as the inning changed. His iPhone sat dark on his thigh. Somewhere, that goldfish was swimming in a stranger's tank, and his wife was walking out of his life, and he couldn't remember which one hurt more.