The Seventh Inning Stretch

The baseball game flickered on the television, the cable connection fraying at just the wrong moment. Marcus watched the pixels dissolve into gray static, just as the batter swung.

"You missed it," Sarah said from the kitchen, not looking up from her cutting board. She was slicing an orange, the knife making soft wet sounds against the rind. Citrus scent drifted through their stale apartment.

Marcus shrugged. "It's just a game."

"It's the playoffs. You care about playoffs."

"I cared about playoffs when we had cable that worked. When we had a lot of things."

Barnaby, their ancient golden retriever, groaned from his bed by the window. The dog had been with them through twelve years of marriage, two moves, and now whatever this was—this slow unraveling that neither of them knew how to name. Sarah crossed to him, offering a piece of orange. Barnaby accepted it with a gentle dignity that made Marcus's chest ache.

"The vet says he needs a vitamin supplement," Sarah said, still not looking at Marcus. "For his joints. It's forty-five dollars a bottle."

"Get it."

"We're already behind on—"

"Get it, Sarah. The dog is old. Let him be comfortable."

She finally turned. Her eyes held that particular exhaustion he'd come to recognize—the kind that lived in the space between love and resentment, grown comfortable over time like a well-worn sweater.

"What about us, Marcus? What vitamin do we take?"

The cable box sputtered back to life. The game was still on, but the bottom of the seventh. Everything had moved forward without them. The dog chewed his orange slice slowly, methodically, like he'd learned to do with everything in this life that was good.

Marcus stood up and walked to the window. The orange glow of sunset hit the buildings across the street. He thought about all the things they'd stopped saying. How silence had become easier than the truth.

"There's no pill for this," he said finally. "But I can fix the cable connection. I can do that much."

Sarah watched him kneel by the television, his hands moving with the same careful attention he used to give her, once, in another lifetime. Barnaby sighed in his sleep, dreaming of running.

"Marcus?" she said softly.

"Yeah?"

"The game's over. We lost."

He kept working. "I know. But the picture will be clearer next time."