Extra Innings

Marcus found his friend Elena at the corner table, exactly where she said she'd be. Ten years had added lines around her eyes and silver to her hair, but she still held herself with that same deliberate grace — like she was waiting for something specific to happen.

The restaurant was loud, full of people pretending to have somewhere better to be. Elena ordered for both of them: the spinach salad, hold the onions, just like college. The waiter nodded like this was the most normal thing in the world.

"I still can't believe you came," she said, pushing her glass across the table. Condensation wept down the sides.

"Neither can I."

The Yankees game played silently on the television mounted above the bar. Baseball had been their thing back then — cheap seats, overpriced beer, pretending they understood the statistics. Marcus remembered how Elena would squeeze his arm during close plays, how her perfume mixed with the smell of popcorn and stale beer. How he'd wanted to kiss her after that extra-inning game against the Red Sox, and how he hadn't.

"I'm getting married," she said.

The spinach arrived, dark and glistening. Marcus stared at his plate.

"Congratulations," he said, and meant it about as much as anyone means anything at thirty-five.

"His name's David. He doesn't like baseball."

Marcus laughed, because what else was there to do?

"Remember," she said, "that night we stayed up until four talking about what we'd be like at forty? You said you'd be a writer. I said I'd be alone."

"I'm an accountant. You're getting married."

"Exactly."

She reached across the table, her fingers brushing his forearm. The contact sent electricity through him, stupid and adolescent and real. Outside, it started to rain.

"I wanted you to know," she said softly. "Before."

Before what? Before she belonged to someone else completely? Before this window between them closed for good?

The television showed a home run. The silent crowd cheered.

Marcus watched a piece of spinach caught between her teeth and thought about all the words he'd never said, all the chances he'd watched sail past like pop flies he should have swung at. Some opportunities don't come back around. Some innings just end.

"I'm happy for you," he said again.

This time, he almost believed it.