Line Drive

The baseball cracked against the bat — that sharp, clean sound that had always made Elena's heart lift. Tonight, it just made her tired.

She watched from the bleachers as David shifted in his seat, one palm flat on the metal bench between them. The space between his hand and hers measured everything they'd lost.

"He's getting faster," David said, nodding toward their son rounding second base.

"He's twelve, David. He's supposed to get faster."

"Right." He rubbed his beard — the salt-and-pepper scruff he'd started growing after she moved out. Made him look like someone she didn't know. Or maybe someone she wished she didn't.

The sky burned orange above the stadium lights, that particular bruised color of things ending. Summer. Marriage. The long slide into whatever came next.

"I'm seeing someone," David said.

Elena kept her eyes on the field. "Okay."

"Her name's Sarah. She's a forensic accountant."

"That sounds nice."

"You don't care."

"I'm trying not to."

A fox darted across the outfield, a flash of rust-red that made the players pause. Someone laughed. The fox paused, regarded them with clever, assessing eyes, then slipped under the fence.

"She wants to meet him," David said.

Elena turned then. "No."

"He asked about her."

"He asked about the woman you brought to his birthday party, who spent the whole night on her phone. He didn't ask about her."

"It's been eight months, El."

"And I still have to bear the fact that you stopped wanting me before I stopped wanting myself."

The words hung between them, heavier than the humid air. On the field, their son scored, throwing his arms up. The small crowd cheered. David and Elena didn't move.

"I never stopped wanting you," he said quietly. "I just couldn't find us anymore."

Elena looked at her palm against the bench, at the lifeline she'd once read so hopefully. "I know. Neither could I."

Their son waved from the dugout. They both waved back. In perfect sync. Some patterns ran deeper than marriage.

"Orange soda after the game?" David asked. "Old times?"

Elena stood up, brushing popcorn from her jeans. "He likes grape now."

"Right. Grape."

They walked toward the concession stand, three careful feet apart, wearing their shared history like old uniforms — stained, familiar, impossible to take off completely.