The Orange Peel at Seventh Inning

The baseball cap sat on the dashboard of Elena's parked car, gathering dust in the Connecticut November twilight. It had been Marcus's hat—that cheap, adjustable mesh thing he'd worn to every minor league game they'd attended during their first year together. Three years of marriage later, and the hat was still here, but Marcus was not.

She peeled the orange she'd bought at the gas station, her fingers working mechanically at the thick rind. The citrus scent cut through the stale car air, sharp and aggressive, like the argument they'd had that morning. He'd said she was too guarded. She'd said he was too comfortable.

"Baseball," she muttered to the empty car. "Everything with him was baseball analogies. Bottom of the ninth, two outs, swing for the fences."

Her phone buzzed. Marcus. Probably calling to say he was sorry, that he'd be sleeping at his brother's place tonight, that they could talk tomorrow. She let it go to voicemail.

The orange sections were perfect, crescent moons of juice. She ate one, then another. She remembered how Marcus would eat oranges at games, the juice dripping down his chin, staining that ridiculous hat. How he'd laughed when she'd teased him about it, how he'd pulled the cap low over his eyes and said, "You love this hat, El. You just won't admit it."

He was right, damn him. She did love the hat. She loved the man who wore it, the one who made everything into a game, who believed life could be won if you just kept swinging.

The phone buzzed again. This time she answered.

"I still have your hat," she said.

"I know," Marcus said, and she could hear the smile in his voice. "I was hoping you would."