The Seventh Inning Stretch

The iphone had been sitting in the junk drawer for six months—since David's heart stopped somewhere between third base and home—and Sarah had finally charged it. The screen lit up with 47 missed messages, all from her, all from that last afternoon.

She shouldn't have looked. But the lightning storm outside had knocked out the wifi, and her own phone was dead, and something made her power up his device. The baseball app was still open, paused at the bottom of the ninth. The Yankees down by three. David never left a game unfinished.

Her finger hovered over delete when she saw the voicemails. Not from her—from someone named 'M'.

"Hey, it's me. Just wanted to say... I know you're at the game, but I've been doing a lot of thinking. About us. About what you said."

Sarah's hands trembled. The timing lined up with the afternoon David claimed he was working late. The afternoon he'd come home smelling like cheap perfume and baseball stadium beer.

"I can't do this anymore," the woman's voice continued, tearful now. "If you're not going to leave her, then I can't keep being the other woman. You need to choose. Tonight."

The message was timestamped 7:43 PM. The lightning struck outside at that exact moment, illuminating the dark kitchen with a violent flash. Sarah dropped the phone.

She'd spent six months mourning a man who'd died in her arms, a man who'd whispered 'I love you' with his last breath. She'd built a shrine to his memory, convinced herself they'd had something rare, something perfect.

The iphone screen still glowed on the floor. Another voicemail from 'M' the next day: "I guess you chose. I hope you're happy."

He hadn't chosen at all. He'd died before he could break either of their hearts.

Sarah sank to the kitchen floor and laughed until she cried—a dark, broken sound that matched the thunder still rolling across the sky. The baseball game remained frozen on the screen. The Yankees never got their chance to rally. Neither did she.