Lightning in the Ninth
The wilted spinach lay across my plate like something that had given up trying. I pushed it around with my fork while Sarah's iPhone buzzed between us on the table—third time in twenty minutes. She didn't apologize for the interruption. She never did anymore.
"You're doing that thing," she said, not looking up from her phone.
"What thing?"
"That thing where you pretend everything's fine when it's not. Like the baseball tickets you bought for next month. We haven't been to a game together in two years."
Outside, lightning cracked the sky—sudden, violent, illuminating the dinner we'd both stopped eating. The flash showed me the dark circles under her eyes, the new lines around her mouth that hadn't been there when we'd said vows in the church basement.
"I thought you liked baseball," I said weakly.
"I liked who we were at baseball games. That's gone."
Her phone buzzed again. She turned it face-down, then back up. The screen lit her face in cool blue. Someone was messaging her. Someone who mattered.
"Who is it?" I asked, though I already knew.
"Does it matter?"
"Yeah. It matters."
She sighed, put the phone down. "His name is Michael. He's a graphic designer. He listens when I talk. He doesn't buy tickets to games we stopped caring about three years ago."
The spinach on my plate looked suddenly ridiculous. This whole dinner, this whole marriage—past its expiration date, sitting there getting cold while we both pretended.
"You're full of bull," I said, but without anger. Just stating the truth I'd known since winter. "You're not leaving because of the tickets. You're leaving because you already left."
Outside, the storm broke. Rain slammed against the windows like applause.
"Yeah," she said, finally meeting my eyes. "I suppose I did."
I nodded. Finished my spinach. It tasted like acceptance. "Then let's not pretend anymore."
She reached for her phone. I didn't stop her. Some games end in the bottom of the ninth, and some just drag on until everyone's gone home and the lights are out.