Lightning Over the Diamond

The iphone lit up my darkened apartment at 2:47 AM. Rachel's text, sent three hours ago: "I think we need to talk."

I'd been waiting for this message since the night she'd left her earrings on my nightstand—a deliberate remnant, or maybe she'd just forgotten. Three weeks of careful ambiguity, of lingering coffees and the way she'd lean in too close during Monday meetings. Now this.

On the tv, the baseball game dragged into extra innings. I'd played Division II in college, a lifetime ago. The pitcher wound up, threw—a strike. The crowd roared. Somewhere, Rachel was probably sleeping, or not sleeping at all.

On the kitchen counter, an orange sat in a ceramic bowl. I peeled it, the citrus scent sharp and immediate, cutting through the stale apartment air. My father used to eat one every night during his chemo treatments. Said the vitamin C gave him something to control.

The storm outside intensified. Lightning flashed, illuminating the rain streaking my window. I counted the seconds until thunder—one, two, three. Three miles away.

Another text from Rachel: "I can't do this anymore."

I thought about the baseball diamond, how the game could change with a single swing. How Rachel and I had been playing our own careful game, neither of us willing to call it what it was. Now she'd walked off the field.

The orange sections were sweet, bitter, perfect. I ate them standing in my kitchen, watching the lightning crackle purple-white across the sky, and realized I wasn't sad. Just tired of games, baseball or otherwise, where someone always has to lose.