Seventh Inning Stretch

The pyramid of empty takeout containers towered beside David's sofa, a monument to three weeks of solitary dinners. His dog, Buster, nosed at the cartons, hopeful for forgotten lo mein. Across the room, Emma's cat, Luna, watched from her cardboard carrier — the last thing Emma had left behind when she walked out three Sundays ago.

David should've been at the baseball stadium tonight. Season tickets, section 114, row 12 — the seats Emma had surprised him with for their fifth anniversary. She'd loved baseball in that way people love things they don't understand but want to share. She never grasped why a hit could go foul or why innings seemed endless, but she loved the seventh-inning stretch, the way the crowd rose together like a single breathing organism.

He'd stayed home instead. The pyramid scheme he'd uncovered at work — layers of fraudulent contracts spiraling upward toward management — had finally collapsed that morning. His boss, the architect of it all, had been escorted out by security. David had spent the afternoon giving statements to investigators.

"Should've gone," he muttered to Buster. The dog thumped his tail against the floorboards.

His phone buzzed. Emma. She wanted to know if he'd fed Luna. The cat meowed, as if on cue.

"Yes," he typed. Then added, "Miss you."

The response came quickly: "I saw the news about your work. Are you okay?"

David stared at the pyramid of cartons. His job might dissolve. His marriage already had. The baseball season would end, as it always did.

But then Buster trotted over and rested his chin on David's knee. And Luna, perhaps sensing the shift in atmosphere, emerged from her carrier and jumped onto the sofa beside him, pressing her warm flank against his thigh. The pyramid of takeout containers was just trash, after all.

He thought about the pyramid scheme at work — how it had seemed solid until it collapsed. How his marriage had seemed permanent until it didn't. Maybe nothing was truly built to last. Maybe that was the point.

The seventh-inning stretch would happen without him. The crowd would rise, collective breath held, then exhale together. Tomorrow, he'd clean up the cartons. He'd call the vet about Luna's shots. He'd figure out what came after the collapse.

For now, he let his hand rest on Buster's head while Luna purred against his side, and watched the dust motes dance in the evening light.