Bottom of the Ninth

The baseball stadium emptied around him, crowds streaming toward exits while Marcus remained in seat 14F, plastic cup of warm beer sweating onto his jeans. Forty-two years old and still avoiding going home to the apartment Sarah hadn't fully moved out of yet. Three boxes sat in the hallway—his stuff, her stuff, their stuff.

A fox trotted along the warning track, sleek rust-colored movement against the manicured green. Marcus watched it pause, nose testing the air like it understood something about patience. The creature reminded him of Buster, their red heeler, the dog they'd adopted twelve years ago during that month of blissful optimism before Sarah's residency schedule became the third person in their marriage. Buster had chosen Sarah in the divorce. The betrayal had stung more than the papers themselves.

He checked his phone. No new messages. Not that he expected one. The last real conversation they'd had ended with her saying, "You love the idea of us more than you love me." He'd denied it, but the accusation had settled in his chest like wet ash.

Lightning forked across the western sky, illuminating the empty stadium in stark freeze-frame. The storm coming in from Kansas had been forecast for days. Everything was forecastable these days. The weather. The end of his marriage. The gradual erosion of whatever they'd promised each other on a rooftop in Chicago fifteen years ago.

The fox vanished into the dugout tunnel. Marcus stood, knees popping, and made his way toward the concession stands where a cleanup crew swept discarded peanut shells and crumpled napkins. The game had gone into extra innings. He couldn't even remember who'd won.

Outside, the first fat drops of rain hit the pavement, darkening it to charcoal. He'd go home. He'd call the movers about Sarah's boxes. He'd stop going to baseball games alone.

But not tonight. Tonight he'd walk through the storm and let himself believe, for just a few more hours, that something unpredictable could still happen.