The Bottom of the Ninth

The baseball game was entering the bottom of the ninth when Marcus's iphone vibrated against the aluminum bench. He knew who it was before looking. Had known for weeks, since he'd stopped kissing her hello and started timing his bathroom breaks to coincide with her shower.

"Two outs," his brother David said, not taking his eyes from the field. "You gonna answer that?"

Marcus stared at the screen: Sarah. Again. Always Sarah, his wife's sister, with her knowing looks and lingering touches at family dinners. The affair was obvious, laughably so, a broadcast signal everyone but Sarah received. Or maybe she did know. Maybe that was the point.

"I applied for that transfer," Marcus said instead. "Seattle."

David turned to him then. Forty years old and still wearing their father's old baseball cap, faded navy with a curved brim. "You're running?"

"I'm starting over."

"Same thing." David cracked open another beer. "Dad ran, remember? Mom died and he ran straight into that bottle, then into the grave. You gonna be him?"

The iphone vibrated again. A text this time: We need to talk. Sarah.

Marcus stood up. The stadium lights buzzed overhead, a chorus of electric insects. Below, the batter struck out. Game over. People streamed toward exits, a collective exodus from disappointment.

"I'm not running," Marcus said, though his voice lacked conviction. "I'm choosing."

"Choosing what? To let her win?"

Marcus looked at his phone, then at the field where players packed up their gear, then at his brother—his anchor, his keeper of truths he'd rather forget. He thought about baseball, about how the best hitters failed seven times out of ten, and how the game could stretch on for hours only to be decided by inches.

"No," Marcus said, sitting back down. "Not today."

He deleted the message. Then Sarah's contact. Then turned off the phone.

"Good," David said. "Now shut up and watch them clean up the field. Tomorrow's another game."