Seventh Inning Stretch Marks

The orange peel in Mara's pocket was warm against her thigh, a small act of sabotage she'd almost talked herself out of. Fourth row behind home plate, David sat three seats away with HER—the woman whose yoga studio Instagram Mara had been hate-scrolling for six months. The baseball game dragged on, innings unspooling like the disappointment that had become her marriage.

Their son, Leo, stood in the outfield, picking at the grass, missing every ball that came his way. David used to take Leo swimming every Sunday morning before the divorce. They'd emerge from the community center smelling like chlorine and boyhood, a private world Mara had never quite entered. She'd watch from the bleachers, forever the observer, while father and son perfected their underwater handshakes.

The orange in her pocket had been David's favorite fruit. He'd eat them in the car, juice running down his chin, staining his shirts. She'd hated that—how he carried bits of his joy into everything, careless and unapologetic. Now he had someone new to stain shirts with. The yoga studio owner probably preferred organic. Probably had wet wipes.

Leo missed another ball. The crowd groaned. David didn't notice. He was leaning toward HER, laughing at something private, his hand on the back of her seat. Possessive. Easy.

Mara stood up slowly, the orange suddenly heavy in her pocket. She walked down the aisle, past them, her son in the distance still picking at clover. She could leave. Could walk out of this stadium and keep walking until the orange rotted, until her legs gave out, until she forgot the way David looked like he was finally, perfectly happy.

Instead she sat behind them, peeled the orange with deliberate slowness, letting the citrus scent cut through the hotdog air. David turned, startled. Their eyes met over the yoga teacher's shoulder. He saw the orange first, then remembered. Swimming lessons. Sunday mornings. The underwater world they'd built without her.

Leo looked up then, spotted her, smiled with that gap-toothed joy she'd thought she'd lost forever. He waved, glove on his hand, completely unaware of the wreckage surrounding him.

Mara took a bite of the orange. Juice ran down her chin. She didn't wipe it away.