The Ninth Inning

Maggie pressed her palm against the cold window of their apartment, watching the baseball stadium lights flicker in the distance. Three blocks away, the crowd roared—probably a home run. Inside, their kitchen was silent except for the refrigerator's hum.

"I made fresh spinach," David said, his voice tight. "Like you asked."

She turned from the window. He stood by the stove, wooden spoon in hand, the pan of wilted greens looking sad and earnest. He'd tried. God, he'd been trying for months now, ever since she'd confessed she was unhappy. The counseling sessions, the date nights, the elaborate meals he learned to cook from YouTube tutorials.

Their golden retriever, Buster, nudged her leg with his wet nose, sensing the tension. She knelt to bury her face in his fur—David had bought Buster as a puppy five years ago, after their third anniversary, thinking a dog would fix what was already breaking.

Outside, someone set off fireworks. The baseball game had ended.

"I don't want the spinach, David." Her voice cracked. "I don't want you to try anymore."

His shoulders slumped. The spoon clattered against the pan.

"So that's it, then?" His voice was quiet. "After seven years?"

"It's been over since last winter." She stood up, her palm still damp from the window. "You're in love with who I was, not who I am. And I—I've been grieving this relationship while still living in it."

Buster whined, moving between them. David set the spoon down and ran his hand through the dog's fur, his eyes wet.

"I'll stay at Sarah's tonight," she said. "We can talk about logistics tomorrow."

As she packed a bag, the baseball stadium lights went dark. Behind her, she heard David dumping the spinach into the trash, the soft thud of something neither of them would ever eat now.