The Orange Peel at Seventh Inning

Maggie sat in the hospital room, her fingers working an orange peel in long, careful strips. The citrus scent cut through the antiseptic air, sharp and cruel. On the television above the bed, a baseball game played without sound — players moving like ghosts across the emerald field.

"You always did that," Daniel whispered. His voice was dry leaves, his skin the color of old paper. "Peeled oranges in one long strip. Remember?"

She nodded, unable to speak. They hadn't been real friends in thirty years, not since she'd chosen her career over whatever had been growing between them that summer after college. Now here she was, summoned by his sister, watching cancer finish what time had started.

"We used to go to games," he said. "You'd bring oranges. Said they were better than beer."

"They were cheaper," she managed. "We were broke."

"No." His eyes found hers, surprisingly clear. "You said they were real. Said baseball was real too, not like the rest of it — not like corporate ladders and suburbs and people who collect friends like trading cards. You were right, Mag."

The orange peel broke in her hand. Juice stung her fingers.

"I should have called," she said. "When I got your letter last year."

"Wouldn't have mattered." He smiled faintly. "I got what I needed. I told you. That was enough."

A home run arced across the silent screen. Daniel's breathing slowed. Maggie realized she was holding the remains of something she couldn't consume, something that had ripened and sweetened while she wasn't looking, until there was nothing left but the memory of fragrance and the bitter aftertaste of time.

She laid the orange peel on his blanket and took his hand. In the end, they were just two people in a quiet room, while somewhere far away, a crowd roared for something that had already happened.