The Longest Inning

Marcus stood by the edge of the pool, nursing a whiskey that had gone watery twenty minutes ago. The summer air hung heavy and still, and somewhere in the distance, he could hear the crack of a bat from a baseball game drifting through speakers he couldn't see.

Sarah sat on a lounge chair, her iphone glowing in her lap like an accusation. She'd checked it four times in six minutes. Each time, her thumb would hover, then pull back, as if the screen had burned her.

"It's work," she said, not looking up.

Marcus swirled his drink. "Work doesn't make hands shake."

The pool water reflected the party lights in fractured constellations. He remembered teaching Sarah to swim in this pool seven years ago, how she'd laughed underwater, hair floating around her face like seafoam. Now he wondered what else she'd learned to do beneath the surface.

"Marcus."

"Sarah."

Her iphone chimed again—multiple messages rapid-fire, like gunfire in slow motion. She didn't touch it.

"We should go inside," she said.

Marcus watched the water's surface. "I think they can wait."

"He's just a colleague."

"Colleagues don't text at midnight."

Sarah stood up, leaving the iphone on her chair. Its screen dimmed to black, like a small death. "You're projecting."

"Am I?"

She walked toward him, stopping at the pool's edge where the water lapped against the tiles. The baseball announcer's voice carried something about a full count, two outs, bottom of the ninth. Marcus felt like he'd been standing at this plate for years, watching pitches he couldn't swing at sail past.

Sarah reached for his hand. Her palm was warm, her fingers steady, but her eyes were wet. "Marcus. Please. Not here."

He looked at the iphone, dark and dormant on the lounge chair. He looked at the pool, deep and chlorinated, where all their summer memories floated like drowned things. He looked at Sarah, who'd been crying without him noticing.

"You promised," Marcus said.

"I know."

"Twice."

"I know."

The baseball crowd roared in the distance—a home run, or maybe a strikeout. It was hard to tell which from here.

"Okay," Marcus said. "But tomorrow, we're calling a therapist."

Sarah's shoulders dropped. She squeezed his hand, then released it. "Tomorrow."

He took her hand again, and they walked toward the house, leaving the iphone and the pool and the long summer night behind them, the baseball game fading into crickets and silence.