Innings

The baseball game droned on—ninth inning, two outs, runners on second and third. But Sarah couldn't focus. Her marriage had entered extra innings months ago, and she was running out of plays.

"You're not even watching," Mark said, his voice flat. He'd stopped trying to make her laugh three years ago.

"I'm watching." She wasn't. She was thinking about the cat she'd secretly adopted—the stray with the mangled ear that lived behind their apartment building. It was the only thing that made her feel anything anymore. The cat didn't ask questions. It just accepted the tuna she brought and let her sit in silence.

"That's a bear of a situation," the announcer's voice boomed over the PA. Some player had messed up, and the crowd groaned.

Mark laughed, the sound jarring. "Remember our camping trip? When we thought we heard a bear?"

Sarah remembered. She'd been terrified, and he'd held her all night, whispering that he'd protect her. That version of Mark felt like a ghost.

"Yeah," she said. "I remember."

He turned to her then, really looked at her, for the first time in what felt like seasons. "You know what I don't understand? How we got here. How you became someone I don't know."

The cat scratched at the back door of her mind. The bear of a problem was that she'd stopped pretending years ago.

"I never changed," she said, standing up. The game didn't matter. The crowd noise faded to a hum. "I just stopped acting like everything was fine."

She walked out of the stadium into the cool October air. Later, she would cry. Later, she would find an apartment that allowed cats. Later, she would learn what it meant to be alone without being lonely.

But for now, she just kept walking.