The Seventh Inning Stretch

The baseball stadium roared around us, but Sarah and I sat in silence that felt louder than the crowd. She hadn't looked at me since I'd told her I was leaving. Her iPhone lay face-up on her knee, screen lighting up with messages she wasn't reading. I watched her thumb hover over notifications, then retreat, like she was afraid of what they might say.

"You want some water?" I asked, gesturing to the plastic bottle between us. It was sweating condensation, weeping onto the concrete like it understood something we didn't.

She shook her head without meeting my eyes. On the field, the baseball player adjusted his cap, squinting into the sun. I wondered if he'd ever fallen out of love with something he'd built his whole life around. The stadium organ played something mournful, inappropriate for the afternoon light.

"My mother says you're making a mistake," Sarah said finally, her voice tight. "She says you're having a midlife crisis."

"I'm not having anything," I said. "I'm just... finished."

The baseball cracked against a bat—such a clean, sharp sound. Everyone stood up around us, the seventh inning stretch. We stayed seated, two people submerged in something deeper than disappointment. Sarah's iPhone buzzed again, insistent, and I watched her swipe it away without looking, like she was pushing away the whole world.

"I remember when you used to watch baseball with your dad," she said, and the way she said it—like she was accusing me of something—I felt it in my chest. "Before he got sick. You said you wanted that too. Someday."

The water bottle tipped over, spilling across the plastic seat between us. Neither of us moved to stop it. We just watched it spread, creeping toward our shoes, and I thought about how things break apart so slowly you barely notice until it's too late.

"Someday's not coming," I said.

She turned to me then, really looked at me, and I saw all the water she hadn't cried yet. Behind her left shoulder, through the gap in the stadium stands, I could see the city skyline, and beyond that, the rest of my life—already begun without her.