The Pyramid's Ninth Inning

The cat sat on the windowsill, watching them with those judgmental yellow eyes—Maggie's cat, not his. He'd never wanted pets. Too much commitment, she'd said, laughing over their first dinner. Now he wondered if she'd been talking about him.

"It's not a pyramid scheme," she insisted, her voice sharp in the cramped apartment. "It's multi-level marketing. There's a difference."

"You're selling wellness supplements to people who can barely afford rent, Maggie." He gestured at the stack of boxes by the door. "That's the definition."

She wrapped her arms around herself, defensive. "I'm building something. You wouldn't understand—you've never had to hustle."

The cat leapt from the sill, tail flicking with what looked suspiciously like disdain.

"Remember that baseball game?" he asked suddenly. "Last summer, minor league stadium, cheap seats behind home plate?"

Her expression softened. "We drank warm beer and you explained why the catcher's signals matter."

"You fell asleep in the seventh inning stretch. Your head on my shoulder." He swallowed. "I bought that baseball cap you liked—the one with the stupid embroidered crab. Still have it."

"I know."

"Then why are you choosing some—some get-rich-quick scheme over us?"

"Because I'm tired of choosing between groceries and gas," she snapped. "Because you're comfortable, David. You're happy with enough. I need more."

The cat wound between his legs, purring. He thought about pyramids—ancient ones built on the backs of workers, modern ones built on their dreams. Baseball fields, where the distance between bases never changed, where you could always round third and head for home.

"I'm going to my sister's," she said. "Need time to think."

"Take the cat."

"David—"

"Please. Just for tonight."

She left with a cardboard box of essentials and the cat carrier. He sat on the couch and turned on the television. A baseball game, bottom of the ninth. The batter swung, missed, swung again. The crowd roared as the ball sailed into the stands.

He thought about Maggie's pitch—her upline, her downline, the geometric perfection of her promised future. The ancient Egyptians buried their kings under pyramids of stone. Modern Americans buried their marriages under pyramids of dreams.

Outside, distant sirens. The apartment too quiet without the cat's rhythmic purring, without Maggie's restless energy. He picked up the crab-embroidered cap from the coffee table, turned it over in his hands.

Bottom of the ninth, two outs. He wasn't ready to leave the batter's box yet.