The Art of Leaving Early

The seventh inning stretch. That's when David left me at the stadium, twenty-three years ago, his voice thin as he shouted over the crowd that he couldn't do this anymore. Couldn't do what exactly? Watch baseball? Be my friend? The question had haunted me through two marriages, three promotions, and countless nights of staring at bedroom ceilings.

Now I run six miles every morning before dawn, my sneakers hitting pavement in a rhythm that almost drowns out the memory. My knees ache—I'm forty-seven now—but the pain feels necessary. Penitential.

Last Tuesday, I saw him at a coffee shop. David. My oldest friend. He was wearing a faded baseball cap, the same one from college, and reading a paperback. Our eyes met across the counter. For three seconds, I weighed the cost of walking over. The cost of pretending everything could be smoothed over with awkward small talk and nostalgia for friendship's corpse.

I ordered my coffee black and ran instead. Literally ran out the door, down the street, my breath coming sharp in the morning air. That's the thing about running—you convince yourself you're moving toward something when really you're just fleeing. The baseball stadium downtown hosts games nightly now. From my balcony, I watch the floodlights cut through the darkness like judgment day.

Sometimes I think about calling him. Then I remember: some friendships don't end with explosions. They end with seventh innings and quiet exits, with one person walking away while the other stays in their seat, holding an overpriced beer, suddenly, painfully alone.