Seventh Inning Stretch Marks

I wipe my sweating palms against my jeans, leaving dark streaks on the denim. It's ninety degrees and climbing, the kind of heat that makes you question every decision that led you to this moment.

"Mom! You watching?"

Dean waves from left field. At fifteen, he's all lanky limbs and uncertainty, wearing his father's old glove. I smile and raise my hand, but the truth is, my mind keeps drifting elsewhere.

Last night, Mark dropped by unexpectedly. He brought spinach salad from that place on Fifth—the one we used to go to when we were still trying, back when "trying" felt like something rather than nothing. We ate on the floor of my new apartment because I haven't bought furniture yet, and for twenty minutes, between forkfuls of wilted greens and too much garlic, I remembered why I loved him. The way he laughs at his own terrible jokes. The small white scar on his chin from when he fell off that ladder at twenty-two. The particular softness of his palm against mine when he thought I was asleep.

The palm trees beyond the outfield fence sway in the breeze, their fronds casting long, wavering shadows across the dirt path. A batter steps up to the plate, cleats digging in, and I recognize Mark's old stance—elbows tucked, eyes narrowed, the particular angle of his shoulders. The same posture I'd watched from baseball stands for twelve years of marriage.

"Strike three!"

The inning ends. Parents around me groan or cheer, but I'm just thinking about how Mark's palm felt when he pressed a house key into my hand yesterday, saying he'd found it while cleaning out his junk drawer. How he lingered. How I didn't pull away.

Dean jogs toward the dugout, tipping his cap to me. I wave back, heart hammering, and wonder if some innings never really end—if we just keep circling the bases, hoping to reach home plate, even when the game has clearly moved on.