The Last Inning

Margaret stood in the doorway, watching him. David sat in his armchair, the glow of the television illuminating his face as the baseball game played out in silence. He'd turned the sound down weeks ago, around the same time he'd stopped noticing the rotting spinach in the crisper drawer, the same week she'd started sleeping in the guest room.

"I'm leaving," she said, and the words felt foreign in her mouth, like speaking a language she'd once known but had forgotten through disuse.

He didn't turn away from the screen. A player slid into home plate, dust rising around him like something sacred. "The game's almost over."

"That's the problem, isn't it?" She pressed her palms against the doorframe. "The game's been over for years. We're just sitting in the stadium after everyone else has gone home."

The cat — his cat, really, though Margaret had been the one to feed it, to clean its litter box, to find it dead behind the dryer last spring — had been David's anniversary gift seven years ago. He'd replaced it with another one three months later, as if grief were something you could substitute.

She thought about the mornings she'd started leaving before dawn, running through the neighborhood until her lungs burned, the pavement hard and unforgiving beneath her feet. She'd told him she was training for a marathon. There was no marathon. There was just the running, the air in her throat, the moments she could pretend she was somewhere else.

"I talked to Sarah," he said suddenly, still watching the television. "She said you've been staying with her."

"She would. She never could keep her mouth shut."

"Is there someone else?"

"No," Margaret said. "There's just not this anymore."

The baseball player on screen rounded third base, headed for home. Margaret thought about how she'd planned everything — the apartment, the lawyer, what she'd keep and what she'd leave behind. She'd even written a list. But somehow, standing here, none of it mattered.

"You're not happy," David said, and it wasn't a question.

"No," she said. "I'm not."

He nodded slowly, finally turning to look at her. His eyes were tired, the skin beneath them thin and translucent. "Me neither."

The television showed the winning team celebrating. David reached for the remote and turned it off. In the sudden quiet, Margaret heard the refrigerator humming, the neighbor's dog barking, the ordinary sounds of a life that had stopped being real a long time ago.

"Okay," he said.

Just okay. Like they were agreeing on where to go for dinner, not ending a marriage.

Margaret picked up her suitcase. She'd packed light. "I'll send for the rest."

"Take the car," he said.

She walked out the door, down the driveway, and somewhere around the corner, she finally stopped running.