The Last Inning

The baseball game flickered on the television, a far cry from the championship games she'd watched with him on this same couch three years ago. Back then, she'd understood nothing about the sport—just enjoyed how his eyes lit up explaining the curveballs and changeups. Now she knew the terminology better than she wanted to, had absorbed it through the osmosis of a thousand evenings alone.

The cable bill sat unpaid on the kitchen counter alongside the letter from his lawyer. She'd canceled the service yesterday, but the receptionist had assured her it would remain active until the end of the billing cycle. Another courtesy she hadn't asked for.

Outside, the pool was murky, its surface slick with leaves and neglect. She'd meant to have it cleaned before the open house, but the realtor had said potential buyers might see it as a project—a selling point, not a drawback. Everything could be reframed. Even abandonment could become "opportunity."

The goldfish bowl sat on the windowsill, its solitary occupant circling the same endlessly small universe. He'd won it at a carnival during their first summer together—a ridiculous prize they'd laughed about while eating cotton candy and pretending the night would never end. The fish had outlasted their marriage by four months.

"Poor planning," her mother had called it when she told her she was leaving. "You should have waited until after the bonus season."

But there was never a right time to dismantle a life you'd built on a foundation of quiet disappointment. Some endings weren't dramatic. There was no screaming match, no shattered glass, no hotel room confrontations. Just the slow erosion of expectations, the settling into separate beds, the way conversation became about logistics and logistics became everything.

She checked her phone—another message from him about the settlement terms. The baseball game entered the bottom of the ninth. The goldfish continued its endless orbit. The pool water caught the last light of day, turning suddenly, beautifully golden.

Tomorrow she would drain it. Tomorrow she would pack the remaining boxes. Tomorrow she would forward the mail and change the address on her accounts. But tonight she sat in the living room of a house that was half-hers, half-his, and watched strangers play a game that had never really been hers, feeling something like peace, or at least its approximation.

The fish rose to the surface, mouth opening and closing in the silent aquarium. She pressed her finger to the glass. "You and me," she whispered. "We're almost there."