The Bottom of the Ninth

The heat pressed against the back of my neck like a judgment I couldn't shake. Sarah sat beside me, her palm pressed against mine in that way that meant she wanted to be anywhere but here. The baseball game had entered the seventh inning stretch, and somewhere in the distance, a dog barked at a vendor — a sharp, piercing sound that cut through the manufactured cheer.

'You're going to bear this burden forever,' she'd said that morning, and I'd wanted to tell her that some things can't be put down. Some losses become part of your posture, the way you carry yourself through rooms and conversations.

The mascot — some cartoon bear with dead eyes — danced on the dugout, waving massive paws at children who would forget him by dinner. I thought about how we perform happiness for audiences who don't actually care if we're breaking inside.

'Think about what you're saying,' Sarah whispered now, and I felt her fingers tighten against my palm. 'You can't just keep — '

'This isn't about what I can or can't do,' I cut in, watching the batter take his practice swings. 'This is about what already happened.'

The truth was, I'd been carrying it for three years. The missed promotion. The way my boss had smiled while stabbing me in the back. The baseball cap I wore to games like this, pretending to be a man who'd moved on. Even the dog we'd adopted — some pathetic, loyal creature who stared at me with those too-human eyes — seemed to know I was lying to myself.

The crowd roared as the ball connected with the bat, arcing toward the palm trees beyond the outfield wall. For a second, everything hung suspended between possibility and inevitable descent.

Sarah's voice cracked: 'You have to let it go.'

I watched the ball drop into the stands, caught by some stranger who'd probably sell it on eBay by morning. 'Some things,' I said, 'once you bear them, they're just part of you.'

She pulled her hand away, and somewhere in the distance, that dog barked again.