The Seventh Inning

The orange sunset bled into the kitchen, catching the stray gray hair she'd left on his pillow. Three months after the divorce, and still he catalogued these artifacts of absence like a forensic scientist of his own unraveling.

He'd promised to feed the cat—her cat, technically, though Mittens had always preferred him. The cat sat by her empty bowl, yellow eyes accusatory. Where's she gone? the silence seemed to ask. Why does the house echo like this?

On the television, a baseball game flickered—ninth inning, two outs, bases loaded. He remembered watching games with her, how she'd pretended to understand the strategy just to be close, how he'd explained inning after inning until she finally admitted she only liked the crack of the bat and the beer.

The dog from next door barked at something in the yard. Their neighbors' golden retriever, always happy, always certain the mailman was an enemy worth vanquishing. He envied that certainty.

His phone buzzed. Her name lit up the screen: "Did I leave my orange scarf?"

He stared at the message. The scarf hung on the coat rack beside the door, a bright pennant of surrender. He'd moved it there weeks ago, unable to walk past it each morning without touching the fabric, still carrying her scent—vanilla and the particular perfume she'd worn since college.

"Yes," he typed. "It's here."

"Can you mail it?"

"I could bring it."

Silence. Then: "I'm seeing someone."

The baseball crowd roared. Someone hit a home run. The dog next door went wild.

He deleted the message, then retyped: "I'll mail it tomorrow."

"Thank you."

That was it. No "I miss you" or "I'm sorry" or any of the things he'd composed in the shower, in line at the grocery store, at 3 AM when the cat's purring couldn't drown out the empty side of the bed.

The cat wound through his legs, finally forgiving him for the delayed dinner. He poured the food, listening to the crunch-crunch-crunch, the most domestic sound in a house that had forgotten how to be a home.

Outside, the last orange light faded. The dog next door quieted. The baseball game ended—someone had won, someone had lost, and tomorrow they'd all play again.

He hung the orange scarf in the closet, behind his winter coats. Some losses you learn to live with. Some you just learn to hide.