The Art of Leaving

Maggie traced the **water** ring on the coaster, her finger following the condensation like a map to somewhere she didn't want to go. The beach bar was nearly empty at 2 PM on a Tuesday, which was exactly why she'd chosen it. Outside, the **palm** fronds clattered in the wind like dry bones, a sound that made her think of endings.

"You're not even listening to me."

She looked up. David's face was doing that thing it always did—this particular brand of wounded confusion that had somehow stopped working on her three months ago. She just hadn't told him yet.

"I'm listening," she said. "You're saying I'm throwing away eight years. You're saying I'm being impulsive. You're saying—"

"—that you're forty-two, Maggie. You can't just—"

The bartender, a twenty-something with irony tattooed on his forearm, turned up the TV. A **baseball** game. The sound of the bat connecting with the ball—a sharp, clean crack that split the air between them.

"Christ," David said, rubbing his temples. "Can we go somewhere else?"

"I like it here."

"You hate baseball."

"I like the sound," she said, and this was true. There was something honest about it. The ball either connected or it didn't. You swung and missed, and everyone saw it happen. None of this quiet erosion, this decade-long unspooling where you woke up one morning and realized you hadn't been touched with intention in three years, hadn't been asked a real question in six. You looked across the table at the person who knew your coffee order and your allergies and the names of your parents' dead dogs, and realized they didn't know what you dreamed about anymore. If they ever had.

The bartender set another glass of **water** between them. No ice.

"Look," David said, his voice softening. "We can fix this. Marriage counseling? A trip? Remember Costa Rica?"

The **palm** trees outside dipped and swayed, rhythmic and indifferent. She thought about Costa Rica—how they'd fought the whole time about whether to take a tour, how she'd cried in the hotel shower and he'd never asked why. How she'd pretended everything was fine because that's what you did when you'd already said yes to the dress and the venue and the rest of your life.

On TV, the batter took a pitch. Ball four. He started walking to first base.

"Maggie?"

"I'm not unhappy," she said, which was also true. "I'm just not here anymore."

The **water** in her glass trembled. Someone passing by, or maybe just her own hand.

"What does that mean?"

She finished her drink. The **baseball** game continued behind her, indifferent and loud. She realized she was going to miss the sound of it—the way the announcers filled silences, how the crowd roared for things that mattered, briefly, before becoming history.

"It means," she said, "that I'm done not leaving."