The Last Inning

I sat alone in the apartment we used to share, nursing a drink and watching lightning crack the sky in furious strokes. Marge's goldfish bowl still sat on the windowsill, the orange fish swimming endless laps in its glass prison, oblivious to the wreckage of our lives.

"Three strikes and you're out," I muttered, quoting the baseball metaphor Marge had used when she walked out. She'd taken everything else—the furniture, the savings, even the cat. Said she needed someone who wasn't "playing for the wrong team." Whatever that meant.

The goldfish floated near the surface, mouth opening and closing in silent judgment. Marge had won it at a carnival ten years ago, the same night we'd danced in the rain and made promises we couldn't keep. Now it was the last living thing between us, and I was pretty sure I'd already killed it by forgetting to feed it twice this week.

Outside, another storm was brewing. Lightning flashed closer now, illuminating the empty space where her photos used to hang. I thought about swimming laps at the YMCA, how the water had felt like the only place I could breathe anymore. How Marge had complained about the chlorine smell on my skin, like it was something I could wash off.

A memory surfaced: playing catch with my father in the backyard, him telling me baseball was about patience, about waiting for the right pitch. He'd been dead five years now. Marge had been gone three months. The goldfish had been swimming in circles for a decade.

What was I waiting for?

The lightning struck closer, thunder rattling the windows. I stood up, crossed to the bowl, and watched the fish create its own tiny currents in the stagnant water. Tomorrow, I thought, I'd take it to the pond in the park. Let it swim somewhere bigger.

But not tonight. Tonight, I just needed another drink and to watch the storm burn itself out.