The Last Inning

You don't notice the ending of things until they've already ended. That was Sarah's philosophy, delivered over wilted spinach she'd forgotten on the stove three nights ago, the acrid smell still clinging to the curtains like a warning I'd chosen to ignore.

Now, sitting in the hospital waiting room, my palm still tingling from where she'd squeezed it before they wheeled her back, I finally understood.

"She's your friend, Marcus," her sister had said earlier, her voice sharp with accusation. "Not just your wife. When did you forget that?"

I wanted to argue. I wanted to say that friendship was different. Friendship was what you had with people you saw occasionally, people you exchanged baseball stats with across cubicle walls, people who remembered your birthday but not your fears. Marriage was something heavier, something that could calcify into resentment if you weren't careful.

But the truth was, Sarah had been right about endings. I'd stopped listening to her stories months ago. I'd stopped noticing how she took her coffee. I'd stopped caring that the spinach was always overcooked because I'd stopped cooking with her.

The television mounted in the corner played a baseball game, the crowd's roar distant and hollow. I watched a batter swing and miss, the third out, the inning over. Sarah loved baseball. She understood its quiet patience, the way most of the game was standing around, waiting, the explosive moments of action rare and precious.

"It's like life," she'd say, pressed against my side on the sofa. "You think it's about what happens, but it's really about how you wait for it."

I closed my eyes, my palm pressing against the memory of her hand. The nurse called my name. I stood up, leaving the half-empty cup of coffee behind. Somewhere in that room, Sarah was waiting for me. Maybe for the last time. Or maybe, if I was lucky, for another inning. Another chance to remember how to be her friend again.