The Eighth Inning of Us

The baseball game flickered on the ancient cable television, the picture freezing and fragmenting until I struck the side of the cabinet with the heel of my hand. The screen snapped back to life just as the batter connected with the ball, sending it soaring into the Chicago night.

"You always do that," Mara said from the kitchen, her voice carrying that particular weariness that develops after seven years of marriage. "As if violence fixes anything."

"It's not violence. It's maintenance." I took a sip of warm beer and watched the outfielder catch the ball against the wall. Besides me on the couch, Barnaby—the dog we'd adopted three months ago in a last-ditch attempt to repair what was broken between us—sighed and rested his chin on my thigh. His golden eyes met mine with an accusation that felt entirely too human.

Mara appeared in the doorway, holding a glass of wine with both hands as if it were something sacred she needed to protect. "The contractor called. The renovation for the nursery is going to cost twice what we budgeted."

"We're not having a baby, Mara."

The silence stretched between us, thick and suffocating. Outside, something moved across the backyard—a fox, I thought, its red coat momentarily illuminated by the security light. It moved with such purpose, such clarity of intention, while we remained stuck in this perpetual state of almost leaving, almost staying, almost becoming something we weren't.

"I saw him today," she said quietly. "My ex. At the coffee shop downtown."

The words landed like a physical blow. I set down my beer, my hand suddenly unsteady. "And?"

"And nothing. We spoke for five minutes about his new job, about the weather. But afterward, I realized I felt more alive in those five minutes than I have in the past two years with you." She took a drink of wine, her eyes never leaving the television where players celebrated in slow motion. "The fox in the backyard has more freedom than we do."

Barnaby lifted his head, sensing the shift in the room's atmosphere. The cable connection chose that moment to fail completely, plunging us into darkness punctuated only by the security light's rhythmic sweep through the kitchen window.

"I applied for that transfer," I said into the darkness. "To Seattle. I was going to tell you tonight."

"Oh," she whispered. And then, after a long pause: "Would you have asked me to come?"

"I don't know," I answered honestly. "I think that's the problem."

The fox appeared again in the yard, pausing to look directly at us through the sliding glass door before disappearing into the night, taking nothing with it but its own wild, uncomplicated freedom. On the television screen, the cable signal flickered back to life just in time for the ninth inning. But neither of us was watching anymore.