Seventh Inning Stretch

Sarah sat two seats away from Mark, though they'd arrived together. Between them on the concrete sat the paper bucket of orange slices—he'd remembered she liked them during games, a small grace note she couldn't bring herself to acknowledge anymore.

Her phone vibrated in her purse. She didn't check it.

"You gonna eat those?" Mark nodded toward the oranges, his baseball cap pulled low enough that she couldn't see his eyes. The navy blue hat, sweat-stained at the crown, was the same one he'd worn to their first game here twelve years ago. Back when the world felt collapsibly small, contained within the outfield walls and the warmth of his hand in hers.

"Not hungry," she said.

A few rows ahead, a guy in an orange hat laughed at something his date said. The sound carried back to them like smoke. Sarah remembered being that people—being the couple that other couples looked at and thought: I hope we're still like that in ten years. Now she wondered what people saw when they looked at Mark and her. The empty seat between them. The bucket of uneaten fruit. The way they both watched the game instead of each other.

The crowd roared. A home run. Mark stood and cheered, his hat nearly flying off. Sarah remained seated.

"Did you see that?" he asked, sitting back down.

"I saw."

"Sarah." He turned to her finally. "What are we doing here?"

She reached for her purse, fingers closing around the iphone. The screen showed three missed calls from her sister, two from her mother. A text from Mark, sent an hour ago: Looking forward to tonight.

"Remember," she said, "when you bought this hat?"

"Yeah."

"You told me you'd never take it off until we won a championship."

Mark's hand went to the brim of his baseball cap. "Yeah."

"We haven't won in twelve years, Mark."

He was quiet for a long moment. The orange slices between them had started to brown at the edges.

"Are we talking about the game?" he asked.

She picked up an orange wedge, brought it to her mouth, tasted the tart sweetness. "I don't think I can do this anymore."

Mark's jaw worked. He took off his hat, ran a hand through his thinning hair, then put it back on. When he spoke, his voice cracked.

"I know."

They sat through the bottom of the seventh. The crowd did the stretch. They stood and they stretched and they sat back down, two people performing the same motions in the same space, miles apart.