The Orange Sky Over Left Field

The stadium lights flickered on against the orange sunset as I sat alone in section 204, my phone burning a hole in my pocket. The baseball game had dragged into the seventh inning, and somewhere between the strikeouts and the beer vendors, I'd become that guy—the forty-two-year-old man whose marriage was crumbling while he watched other people play games.

I missed her hair. That was the stupid thing to fixate on, the copper waves that caught morning light in our kitchen, the way she'd tie it back when we argued. Elena's hair had been the first thing I noticed at that dive bar twelve years ago. Now it was probably cascading over some other pillow, some other man's chest.

The crowd roared as the batter connected, sending the baseball arcing toward left field. But my attention was caught by a little girl in the row ahead, clutching a plastic bag from the carnival-style booths beyond the concourse. Inside, a single goldfish swam in tiny circles, its orange scales matching the dying light.

"Gonna give it a good home?" I found myself asking, my voice rougher than I intended.

The girl shrugged. "Mom said it probably won't live till morning."

I thought about all the things we'd told each other that would last forever. That we'd always come back to each other. That our love could weather anything. That the goldfish we'd won at Coney Island on our first anniversary—stupid, impulsive purchase—would somehow symbolize our enduring commitment. It had lived three years. Longer than our patience.

My phone buzzed. A text from Elena, asking if I was coming back tonight or if she should pack her things.

The baseball sailed over the fence. A home run. The crowd went wild, but I just watched the orange sky deepen into purple, feeling like I'd already lost the only game that mattered.