The Seventh Inning Stretch

The cat was howling again. That same desperate, rhythmic yowl that had started three nights ago, when Julie's suitcase finally disappeared from the hallway closet. Marcus sat on the fire escape of his Brooklyn walk-up, iphone glowing in the darkness as it lit up with her name for the third time that hour. He didn't answer. Some conversations couldn't be unsaid.

He was running from it — the realization that seven years could dissolve into a handful of text messages and a forwarding address. Below, the neighborhood bar was broadcasting a baseball game, the crack of the bat and crowd roar floating up like ghosts. They'd met at Citi Field. Seventh inning stretch, she'd spilled beer on his jersey, laughed with her whole body, head thrown back in that way that made everything seem possible.

Now her name lit up his screen again: 'I left the cat.' And then: 'He's your problem now.'

Marcus laughed, dark and humorless. The cat stopped howling and pressed its face against the window, yellow eyes watching him with something like accusation. This creature — this stubborn, demanding ball of fur that had been a joint decision, a practice run for something bigger, something they never got around to — was now his alone. Like the apartment. Like the life he'd built around someone who was always planning her exit.

The iphone buzzed one last time. Not Julie. A calendar reminder: ' Dinner with Mom — she's asking about Julie.' Baseball continued its rhythmic comfort from below. The cat scratched at the window. Marcus stood up, joints popping, and slid the door open.

"Come on then," he said, scooping up the indignant creature. "Let's go find some decent takeout."

Some innings end badly. But the game keeps going anyway.