The Pitch That Drowned Us

The dog slept between us on the bed, a furry demilitarized zone in a cold war that had lasted three years. Buster, a golden retriever mix with anxious eyes, sensed what we wouldn't say. He chose sides in his sleep — tonight, his head rested on Mark's pillow.

"Did you hear me?" I asked, staring at the ceiling fan's rhythmic slicing of darkness.

"I heard you." Mark's voice was flat. "The Jays lost again. Bottom of the ninth, two outs, bases loaded. Martinez struck out swinging."

Baseball had been our religion once. We'd met at a game, kissed during the seventh-inning stretch, spent our first anniversary in bleacher seats. Now it was just background noise, another thing we couldn't share without touching old wounds.

"That's not what I meant."

"I know what you meant." He turned away, the sheet pulling tight between us like a divided river. Outside, rain hammered against the window, the kind of relentless downpour that made the world feel like it was being washed clean. I wished it could wash us clean too — wash away the infertility treatments, the miscarriage, the years of trying to become parents who never arrived.

Buster sighed in his sleep. We'd adopted him three months ago, a desperate attempt to fill a house that felt too big, too quiet. He was supposed to be our fresh start. Instead, he was just another living thing watching us fall apart.

I got up, padded barefoot to the kitchen. The faucet dripped — water, water everywhere, and not a drop to drink. I'd been drinking too much lately. Mark knew. He said nothing.

The radio on the counter was tuned to the post-game show. Analysts dissecting Martinez's swing, the pitching rotation, the mathematical impossibility of the playoffs. Baseball was beautiful that way: everything could be calculated, explained, predicted. Nothing about the mess Mark and I had made could fit into a box score.

"You going to come back to bed?" Mark stood in the doorway, silhouetted against the hallway light.

"I don't know."

"The dog misses you when you're gone. Even when you're just in the other room."

"Does he?" I turned off the radio. The silence rushed in like water filling a sinking ship. "Or does he just miss the warmth?"

Mark didn't answer. We both knew warmth was the first thing we'd lost.