The Seventh Inning Stretch

The cable of the stadium lights hummed above us, a sound I'd learned to ignore over twenty years of marriage. Tonight, though, everything felt amplified. David's hair, once the same rich brown as our son's, had gone the color of dirty pewter—just like his father's, just like he'd sworn he never would.

"She twenty-three?" I asked, not looking away from the field where the bullpen was warming up.

"Twenty-four." David adjusted his Mets hat, the brim curved perfectly, the fabric soft from years of Saturday games and Sunday hangovers. "She's an analyst at the firm. She understands the pressure."

The bull mascot danced below us, foam horns bobbing to Cotton Eye Jack. Our daughter had loved that mascot at five. Now she was twenty-five, planning a wedding I wasn't sure I should attend.

"I understand pressure," I said. "I paid for the MBA that got you into that firm. I raised your children while you built your kingdom."

His hand covered mine on the armrest—the same hand that had held mine through two miscarriages, our son's leukemia scare, his mother's slow decline. His thumb rubbed my wedding ring, a reflex from better days.

"It's not about understanding," he said, voice cracking. "It's about feeling something. Anything."

The crowd roared as a ball connected with bat. A perfect arc against the stadium lights.

"You feel something," I said, pulling my hand away. "You feel terrified that you're fifty and your hair is gone and your dick only works for women who don't remember September 11th."

David flinched. His hat slipped, revealing a shiny scalp I'd kissed a thousand times.

"I'm sorry," he whispered. "For what it's worth."

"It's worth," I said, standing as the inning changed, "exactly one more baseball game. Then you can go to your analyst. I'll go to a lawyer."

The mascot fired t-shirts into the crowd. Somewhere, a child laughed. David's hand reached for mine again, but this time I let it hang empty between us, like an unanswered question, like a marriage that had stretched too thin and finally snapped.