Seventh Inning Stretch

The papaya sat on the metal bench between us, brown and speckled, like something forgotten at the back of a refrigerator.

I hadn't seen Marcus in five years—not since the day after Elena's funeral, when he'd shown up at my door with a baseball glove and a six-pack, expecting we could toss the ball around and pretend everything was fine. Some grief doesn't get played away. I told him to leave. He did.

Now here we were, sitting three rows back at a minor league game on a Tuesday afternoon, because his therapist suggested closure and I apparently suggested bad decisions.

"Remember how we used to eat this after games?" Marcus gestured at the papaya with his plastic fork. His hair had started thinning. There were lines around his eyes that hadn't been there before. "In college, after baseball practice? We'd sit on the hood of your car and eat papaya like we'd discovered something exotic."

I remembered. I remembered lots of things. How he'd stood as my best man, then disappeared during the divorce. How he'd promised to be there for Elena's birthday and showed up three days later with a half-hearted excuse about work. How I'd spent half our friendship running toward him and the other half running away, trying to convince myself this was what friendship looked like.

"I'm dying," he said.

The crowd erupted as someone hit a home run. The sound washed over us like a wave. I stared at him, really looked at him for the first time in years. The papaya forgotten between us.

"Pancreatic cancer. Six months, maybe a year." His voice didn't waver. "I wanted to tell you before I started treatment. Before I got too sick to pretend I'm not terrified."

A vendor walked by selling peanuts. The father behind us laughed at something his daughter said. Life kept happening around us, indifferent and relentless.

I picked up the papaya and took a bite. It was overripe, mushy and sweet. It tasted exactly the way I remembered, which was its own kind of tragedy.

"I'm not ready to forgive you," I said, swallowing. "But I'm not ready to bury you either."

Marcus nodded. He took a bite himself.

"That's a start," he said, and watched the game like someone who'd finally learned that some seasons just run longer than others.