Innings of Regret

The baseball game flickered silently on the television above the bar—bottom of the ninth, two outs, and the kind of tension that makes strangers hold their breath. Marcus watched without really seeing, his fingers absently peeling back the layers of his spinach and goat cheese salad. The restaurant was nearly empty, just the hum of refrigeration and the distant clink of glasses from the kitchen.

'You're as stubborn as a bull,' Elena had said that morning, her voice cracking in that way it did when she was trying not to cry. 'You charge at everything headfirst, never stopping to consider what you're trampling.'

He'd laughed, told her she was being dramatic. But sitting here now, three hours later, picking at spinach that suddenly tasted like ash, he wondered if she'd been right all along.

Outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, something moved in the gathering dusk. A fox—sleek, russet fur glowing in the streetlights—paused by the restaurant's entrance, its sharp eyes taking in the interior before slipping away into the shadows. Marcus watched it go, thinking about how quickly things could vanish if you weren't paying attention.

He thought about the baseball games they'd watched together, how Elena would pretend to care about innings and statistics just because she knew he loved it. He thought about how she'd made this same spinach salad for their first anniversary, claiming she'd finally mastered his mother's recipe. He thought about the bull-headed arguments that felt so passionate in the moment but now just seemed exhausting.

The television showed the batter connecting with the ball—a perfect arc toward the outfield. Marcus found himself standing, his hand reaching for his phone before he remembered: she'd changed her number. She'd meant what she said.

He sat back down, pushed the spinach away, and signaled for the check. Some games, you lost before you even understood you were playing.