Orange Peel at Seventh Inning

The baseball stadium lights hummed above us, casting long shadows across the empty row where she used to sit. I adjusted my hat—a faded navy cap she'd given me three years ago, the brim still bent to the shape of her hand when she'd playfully adjust it during games.

"You're here again," the vendor said, not unkindly, as he stopped at my row. Same spot as last time, same loneliness etched into the weathered bench.

"Just remembering," I said, peeling the orange I'd brought—a ritual I couldn't break. She'd always loved the citrus scent during summer games, said it cut through the beer and popcorn haze.

The first time we met, she'd been wearing her friend's oversized baseball jersey, laughing at something I'd said about the pitcher's terrible form. That friend would later become her maid of honor, and I'd stand at the front of the church, believing in forever.

Now the orange peel curled in my hands, bitter oils stinging my eyes—or maybe that was just the wind. I'd stopped coming to games when the memories became too sharp, but tonight, something pulled me back.

"Heard she got back in town," the vendor said, cleaning his glasses. "Saw her at the grocery store. Asked about you."

My heart stuttered like a rookie nervous on the mound. Three years of silence, of carefully constructed distance, dissolved in those twelve words.

The seventh-inning stretch announcement crackled over the speakers, and the crowd stood around me. But I remained seated, thumbing the frayed edge of my hat, the orange forgotten on my lap.

Some endings aren't really endings at all, I realized. They're just rain delays—pauses in the game where you wait out the storm, hoping the sky clears enough to play again.

I stood up slowly, the orange peel falling to the concrete below. It was time to find out if this game had extra innings after all.