Striking Out

Elena watched the spinach wilt in the pan, its vibrant green fading into something mournful and soft, much like her marriage. Twenty years of dinners, most of them silent lately. The dog, Buster, scratched at the back door—a rhythmic, desperate sound that matched the thumping in her chest.

"You're going to burn it," Mark said from the living room, where baseball commentators shouted about strikeouts and bull pens. He'd used that word earlier—bullshit—when she'd asked about his phone buzzing at midnight. Again.

She turned off the stove. The spinach lay limp, defeated, like her patience.

"Mark?"

"Yeah?" His eyes remained fixed on the television screen, where a batter swung and missed for the third time. Struck out. Just like she felt.

"Who is she?"

The silence stretched, thick and suffocating. Buster stopped scratching. The commentators' voices seemed to amplify in the void.

"What?" Mark finally turned, and for the first time in months, he really looked at her. His eyes held that familiar combination of guilt and defiance she'd seen twice before. Three strikes, she thought. The old baseball metaphor their father had taught them. Three strikes and you're out.

"Your phone," she said quietly. "The texts. The late nights. The gym membership you never use."

He stood up slowly. "It's not what you think."

"It never is."

Outside, a neighbor's dog began to bark—a sharp, insistent sound that cut through their living room. Buster answered, his nails clicking against the door as he paced.

"I can explain," Mark started.

"Don't bother." Elena moved to the door, clipping Buster's leash onto his collar. The dog's tail wagged hopefully, oblivious to the collapse of their world. "We're going for a walk. When we get back, I want you gone."

"Elena, please—"

"Three strikes, Mark." She opened the door, letting in the cool evening air. "You've been striking out for years. I just finally stopped counting."