Lightning in the Ninth

The divorce papers sat on the kitchen counter between them, weighted down by an empty cereal bowl. The dog—Barnaby, a golden retriever who'd outlasted three apartments and two marriages—whined at Marc's feet, sensing something wrong in the heavy silence between them.

"Remember the sphinx riddle?" Elena said, not looking up from her coffee. "What walks on four legs in the morning, two at noon, three in the evening?"

Marc stared at her. They hadn't spoken about Egypt in five years. That trip had been his attempt to save them, the grand gesture everyone says will fix a broken thing. But standing before the Great Sphinx, dust in their teeth, he'd realized some ruins can't be excavated.

"We used to be good at riddles," he said instead.

Outside, lightning split the sky—spring in Chicago, always dramatic. The flash illuminated the cat carrier by the door, already packed with Pythagoras inside. The cat would go with Elena. Barnaby would stay with Marc. They'd divided the assets with surgical precision, like lawyers instead of lovers.

"I'm taking the baseball tickets," she said. "Fourth row behind home plate. Your brother's seats."

"Take them."

"We met at a game."

"I know."

The silence stretched, thick and unbearable. Marc remembered that night—seventh inning stretch, her hand brushing his as they both reached for the same nacho. The baseball had sailed into the stands, a white arc against stadium lights, and they'd laughed like they'd known each other forever. He'd loved her then, sudden and sharp as lightning.

Now he couldn't remember when it had curdled. Maybe when she stopped asking about his days. Maybe when he started staying late at the office. Maybe when the sphinx-like question marks in their conversations turned into periods, final and absolute.

"The cat hates you," Elena said, finally meeting his eyes. "Just so you know."

"Barnaby loves you."

"Dogs love everyone. That's the problem."

Another flash of lightning. This time, thunder followed, shaking the windows. Barnaby barked once, a confused sound.

"Who are we?" Marc asked. "When the innings end?"

Elena stood up, grabbed the cat carrier. Pythagoras yowled his displeasure.

"That's the easy part," she said. "We're just people who used to love each other."

She walked out. Marc watched her car pull away, taillights fading into the rain, and wondered what walks on four legs then two then three—or whether, when you've lost your way, you ever really walk upright again.