Seventh Inning Stretch
The batter swings. Misses. Michael checks his iPhone again. Nothing.
The stadium lights flicker as the storm rolls in. He shouldn't have come. Shouldn't be sitting here watching baseball — their game — while Sarah is somewhere else, maybe already gone.
"You want anything?" the older woman next to him asks. She reminds him of his mother. Same gray hair, same way her hands never stop moving.
"No thanks."
He looks at his phone. The text message sits there like an accusation: I'm leaving. I mean it this time.
Lightning cracks across the sky. A jagged white scar. The crowd gasps. Someone yells about the game being called.
Their first date was at a baseball game. Nine years ago. Sarah knew nothing about baseball but pretended to care because he did. She ate three hotdogs and kept score on her iPhone, neat little marks he'd find charming until they stopped being charming and became just another thing she did that was perfect while he was still figuring out how to be an adult.
The rain starts. Big drops at first, then a curtain of water. People scramble for cover. Michael stays. What's the point?
His phone vibrates.
A photo. Sarah and someone else. Some guy with perfect teeth and an expensive watch. They're holding coffee cups. They're smiling.
They look happy.
He remembers teaching her the rules of baseball. Three strikes, you're out. He's had more than three. The gambling. The lies. The night he came home at 4 AM and couldn't remember where he'd been.
The iPhone screen blurs. He wipes it with his thumb. The photo is still there.
The announcer's voice booms over the PA system: "Ladies and gentlemen, due to weather conditions..."
Michael stands up. People are rushing toward the exits, umbrellas popping open like flowers. He walks toward the field instead, toward the dugout where he and Sarah snuck in once, drunk and twenty-four years old, convinced they'd live forever.
His phone rings.
He answers.
"Michael?"
"I saw the photo, Sarah."
Silence. Then the crackle of the connection. The storm. Maybe tears.
"I'm sorry," she says. "I didn't want you to find out like this."
He looks up at the sky. Lightning splits the darkness again, beautiful and terrifying.
"No," he says. "I'm sorry."
He hangs up.
The rain keeps falling. Somewhere, someone still believes there's always extra innings.