Fox in the Outfield

The orange sunset bled into the bruised sky as Elena sat alone in the bleachers, cracking open another lukewarm beer. Below, the baseball game continued without her—men in their thirties pretending they were still eighteen, sliding into second base with reckless abandon. She hadn't come for the game.

She'd come because this was where she and David had watched lightning strike three years ago—the night he told her he was leaving. They'd been sitting in these exact seats when the sky turned violet and forks of electricity split the darkness. 'That's us,' he'd said, pointing upward. 'Beautiful and dangerous and about to burn out.'

Elena finished her beer, the aluminum can warm against her palm. A movement in the outfield caught her eye—a fox, russet and sleek, trotting along the warning track as if it owned the place. The players paused, their faces turned toward this interloper.

The fox stopped at second base, looked directly at Elena in the bleachers, and then continued into the woods beyond right field. Something about its deliberate, unhurried path made her chest ache.

Her phone buzzed in her pocket. David's name on the screen, three years later. 'Are you watching?' the text read.

Elena stood up, her knees popping, and walked toward the exit. Behind her, the game resumed. She could hear the crack of the bat, the collective gasp of the crowd. Someone must have hit a home run.

She didn't look back. Some games, you leave before the final out. Some stories, you stop telling yourself. Lightning only strikes once per storm, after all, and she was done waiting in the rain.