The Bottom of the Ninth

The baseball cap pulled low over her face, Maria pressed the cold iphone against her ear, listening to voicemail after voicemail from David. The stadium roared around her—some runner had slid into home—but she heard nothing except the hollow echo of her own breathing.

Three years of marriage, dissolved into pixels on a screen. She'd found the messages at 2 AM, illuminated by that same iphone's blue light. His hair had started graying at the temples last winter, or maybe she'd just stopped noticing when it still looked golden.

"You used to love baseball," he'd said, that last night in their kitchen. "Now you can't even watch a whole game without checking your phone."

The irony was suffocating. She adjusted her hat, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. The vendor called out "Cold beers!" and something twisted in her chest. This was supposed to be their anniversary—seats behind home plate, his favorite team, his favorite player batting cleanup.

Instead, she sat alone, surrounded by strangers' joy, while David's voicemail played: "Maria, please answer. I can explain."

Her thumb hovered over delete. She remembered the way his hair smelled after a shower, how he'd pretend to understand baseball just because she did, how he'd bought this hat for her before their first date. The runner on second stole third. The crowd went wild.

Maria stood, phone in hand, baseball forgotten. She typed one word: Where?

The screen showed three dots, then an address. Their apartment. She straightened her hat, smoothed her hair, and began the long walk up the stadium steps. The game would end without her. Some things mattered more.