Seventh Inning Stretch

The papaya sat on the counter, ripe and accusing, its orange-fleshed sweetness already beginning to bruise where she'd prodded it earlier that morning. Elena always bought them when she was happy, when she believed in the possibility of something new blooming between them. This one had sat there three days.

'You're not even watching the game,' Marcus said, gesturing at the television where the baseball players moved like insects across the emerald field. He'd been drinking since noon, his face slackening into that familiar boozy melancholy she used to find romantic, back when they were twenty-five and brokenness seemed like something you could fix together.

'I'm watching.' Elena picked at the salad she'd made for herself, the raw spinach leaves bitter against her tongue. She'd stopped cooking for him months ago. Now they ate separately, lived separately in the same apartment, their marriage like a ghost they both refused to exorcise.

The announcer's voice droned on about statistics and injuries. On screen, a batter swung and missed, and Marcus cursed, slamming his fist against the coffee table. The sound made her flinch, a conditioned reflex after seven years of carefully tiptoeing around his temper.

'It's just a game,' she said quietly.

'It's not just a game.' He turned toward her, eyes bright with alcohol. 'It's tradition. It's what Americans do. We watch baseball, we drink beer, we—'

'We die slowly,' she finished for him.

He laughed, startled. 'When did you get so mean?'

'When I realized you'd rather watch men hit balls with sticks than look at your wife.' Elena stood up, her chair scraping against the floor. The papaya caught her eye again, swollen with its wasted potential. She picked it up, the weight of it heavy in her hand, and walked to the sink.

'What are you doing?' Marcus asked.

'Cutting my losses.' She sliced through the fruit's flesh, exposing the black seeds nestled inside like secrets. The scent of it filled the kitchen—sweet, cloying, the smell of something that had waited too long to be consumed.

She took a bite, the juice running down her chin. 'I'm leaving, Marcus. After the World Series. I'll let you have that much.'

He turned back to the television. On screen, the bases were loaded. The crowd roared. 'Bottom of the ninth,' he said softly. 'Anything can happen now.'

Elena swallowed the papaya, its sweetness masking something she couldn't quite name. 'No,' she said. 'Some things are already over.'