The Seventh Inning Stretch

The concession stand **water** cost seven dollars, but Sarah bought it anyway. She needed something to hold, something to do with her hands as she sat beside David in the empty row of seats. The baseball game below them was a blur of motion and noise, but she couldn't focus on any of it.

"You're not even watching," David said, not taking his eyes off the field.

"I'm watching." She twisted the plastic cap. "Just thinking."

"About us?"

The word hung between them like the humidity before a storm. Three years together, and now they were sitting in section 214, surrounded by screaming strangers, having the conversation they'd both been avoiding for months. David had been promoted to vice president last month—the kind of job that came with a corner office and a new corporate hierarchy to climb. Every dinner conversation had become about his next move up the company **pyramid**, while she'd been stagnant in the same position, writing grant applications that kept getting rejected.

The sky was turning that bruised **orange** color that came right before sunset, the kind that made everything look momentarily beautiful before fading into darkness. She remembered when they used to watch sunsets from the fire escape of their first apartment, back when they believed that love was enough to bridge any gap between who they were and who they wanted to be.

"The **baseball** team's losing," David said, finally looking at her.

"I know."

"I don't want us to lose."

"David." She set down the water bottle. "We're not losing. We're just... playing different games now."

He reached for her hand, but she pulled away gently. The crowd erupted as someone hit a home run, a moment of collective joy that felt completely disconnected from the quiet devastation in row 214. She stood up.

"Where are you going?" he asked.

"Home. To figure out who I am without you watching."

He didn't follow. As she climbed the concrete steps, she realized she hadn't taken a drink of the water. It didn't matter. Some things you carry just to have something to hold onto until you're ready to let them go.