Bottom of the Ninth

The baseball sailed through the humidity, a white comet against the bruising purple sky. Roger watched it arc toward the left-field fence, his hand instinctively clutching the beer he'd stopped nursing three innings ago.

"You're not listening," Elena said, her voice flat. She ran her fingers through her hair—not the long, dark cascade he'd fallen in love with, but the jagged, chin-length bob she'd cut yesterday without warning. The salon appointment had cost two hundred dollars they didn't have.

"I am," Roger lied. The batter struck out. The crowd groaned. Another wasted opportunity.

The golden retriever lay at their feet, muzzle gray with age, indifferent to the game or their disintegration. Fifteen years. The dog had been there when they'd bought this house, when they'd tried and failed to conceive, when Roger's mother died. Now the dog's hips were failing, and so was everything else.

"The pyramid scheme, Roger. The multilevel marketing thing. You put five thousand dollars on a credit card."

"It's not a pyramid scheme. It's—" He couldn't even say it. Not at the baseball game, not surrounded by families and fathers teaching sons to keep their eye on the ball.

Elena stood up. The dog lifted its head, sensing something shift. "We can't afford to keep the house. We can't afford this dog's surgery. But you invested in essential oils."

"It's residual income. I'm building a network."

"You're building a pyramid." She picked up her purse. "The dog's waiting for you to make a choice."

The game ended. The scoreboard flashed final, but nobody moved. Couples held hands. Fathers hugged children. Someone proposed near the dugout.

Roger looked at the empty seat beside him. The dog whimpered, pressing its wet nose against his hand. In the seventh inning, their marriage had ended. He just hadn't noticed until now.