The Last Inning

Margot's goldfish had outlived them all—two marriages, her career, and now, apparently, her own will to remember. Arthur watched it drift in its bowl, orange scales catching the afternoon light through dusty blinds. Three years he'd been coming here, every Tuesday and Thursday, since the diagnosis.

"It was a baseball game," she said, her voice thin as paper. "The summer we met."

Arthur nodded, though she'd told him this story a dozen times. "I remember."

"You don't," she said sharply. Then, softer: "I don't either. Not really."

She'd been forgetting things in reverse order. First the present, then recent years, now the solid middle of their life together. What remained were fragments: the smell of rain on hot asphalt, the weight of her daughter's newborn body, Arthur's hand in hers during some long-ago crisis. The goldfish—she remembered buying it with their daughter, now thirty-two and living in Seattle, a fact Margot recalled only when prompted.

The dog, Buster, sensed the shift in her mood. He lifted his head from where he'd been dozing on the rug and padded over, resting his chin on her knee. Margot stroked his ears with automatic tenderness.

"At least someone remembers me," she murmured.

Outside, children's voices carried from the park down the street. Baseball practice, probably. The crack of a bat, distant shouting. Arthur remembered the actual game she was thinking of—not the one where they'd met, but one from years later, when their daughter had played outfield in a co-ed league. How they'd sat in folding chairs, sharing lukewarm coffee, watching her run after pop flies in the September dusk. How the season ends. How the daylight shortens.

"We're all just goldfish," she said suddenly. "Swimming in circles, forgetting everything after seven seconds. What's the difference?"

"The difference is I'm still here," Arthur said. "Even if you forget me, I'll remember for both of us."

She studied him, eyes suddenly clear. "That's the saddest thing anyone's ever said to me."

She didn't say it cruelly. Buster sighed and settled back on the rug. The goldfish turned, fins rippling.

"Maybe," Arthur said. "Or maybe it's the only promise that matters."

Margot looked away, toward where the window framed a slice of blue sky. A baseball arced into view, white against blue, before disappearing beyond the frame. She watched the empty space where it had been.

"There was something," she said. "Something about baseball."

Arthur took her hand. "Tell me."

She squeezed back, her grip surprisingly firm. "I think I just did."