Seventh Inning Stretch

The stadium lights hummed above them, artificial suns against an indigo sky. Elena sat with her hands folded in her lap, watching Marcus thumb his iPhone screen for the third time in ten minutes.

"He's not going to text," she said, her voice quiet but sharp.

Marcus started, then locked the screen and slid the phone into his pocket. "I know. Just checking the weather."

"It's seventy-two degrees, Marcus. There's not a cloud in the sky." She gestured at the perfect evening, at the outfield where a player in white stretched against the outfield wall. "Remember when we actually watched the game?"

"I'm watching," he said, but his eyes drifted toward his pocket again.

Seven years ago, they'd met at a dive bar near this same stadium. She'd been wearing an orange sundress that made him think of summer and second chances. He'd bought her a drink and explained baseball's infield fly rule with earnest enthusiasm. They'd left together before the seventh inning stretch, stumbling into each other's lives like a perfect pitch.

Now they sat in section 214, row 12, seats that cost more than his first car. The corporate seats. His promotion's gift. She'd stopped wearing orange years ago.

"Who is she?" Elena asked suddenly.

Marcus turned slowly. The crowd roared as someone hit a home run. A sea of orange towels waved around them—the stadium's giveaway, the same shade as that sundress.

"There's no one," he said. But his hand went to his pocket again. Habit now. A reflex.

Elena stood up. The beer vendor was two rows up, carrying plastic cups that glowed golden under the lights. An orange drink stood out in his tray—some sickly sweet concoction kids ordered.

"You know what hurts most?" she said, looking down at him. "It's not that there might be someone else. It's that you'd rather be anywhere but here. Even with your phone. Even alone."

The scoreboard flashed: SEVENTH INNING STRETCH.

"Elena—" Marcus started, but she was already climbing over knees and spilled popcorn, moving toward the aisle where the crowd's noise would swallow her whole.

His iPhone buzzed in his pocket. A text from work. From HER at work. Nothing important. Never important.

He watched Elena's orange blouse—she'd started wearing it again this month—disappear into the crowd wave. Then he pulled out his phone and stared at the screen, at all the ways he'd learned to be without being present.

The game continued. The crowd cheered. He sat perfectly still, surrounded by people, holding the most expensive device he owned, and understood suddenly that he'd been trading his life for notifications that meant nothing at all.

Behind him, someone spilled an orange soda. The sticky sweet smell of wasted everything.