The Seventh Inning Stretch

The stadium lights hummed above them, a manufactured twilight in the middle of a Tuesday afternoon. Sarah's palm pressed against the back of his hand, a ghost of familiarity that made his chest tighten. They hadn't sat together like this in three years.

"You're going to miss it," she said, nodding toward the field.

David blinked. The baseball was already arcing through the air, a white speck against the manufactured sky. He'd bought the tickets on impulse—nostalgia, really—for the same seats they'd shared every Sunday during their first year together. Back when they could still afford season tickets. Back when they were still 'they'.

He checked his iPhone again. Nothing from the job interview yesterday. The screen reflected his face: thirty-four, tired, the beginning of what his mother called 'character lines' around his eyes. He locked it and watched the condensation slide down his plastic water bottle, pooling on the concrete between his feet.

"How's work?" Sarah asked. She didn't care. She was just filling the silence.

"Same." Actually, he'd been laid off three weeks ago. Couldn't bring himself to tell her. Couldn't bring himself to tell anyone. The mortgage was due in four days.

The crowd roared. Someone hit a home run. David applauded mechanically, his movements synchronized with thousands of strangers, all of them pretending this mattered. The baseball players were millionaires playing a child's game, and he was a unemployed man pretending he belonged here, pretending he hadn't ruined everything.

"I'm seeing someone," Sarah said softly.

The words hit him harder than the divorce papers had. He'd known, of course. You don't stop loving someone just because the paperwork says you should. But hearing it made it real, made it final.

He forced a smile. His palm was sweating against the armrest. "That's good. That's really good, Sarah."

"His name's Mark. He's a lawyer."

Of course he was a lawyer. Mark probably owned season tickets too. Mark probably had his life together.

"Can I get you anything?" she asked. "Another water?"

He looked at her—really looked at her—for what felt like the first time in years. She was still beautiful, still Sarah, but she belonged to a different timeline now. A version of David who hadn't messed everything up.

"No," he said, standing up. "I think I'm going to head out."

"David—"

"It's fine. Really." He squeezed her shoulder, let his hand linger for just a second. "I'm happy for you. I mean that."

He walked up the aisle, away from the field, away from her, his iPhone silent in his pocket. Outside, the city stretched before him—real, messy, full of possibilities he hadn't considered yet. For the first time in months, something like hope stirred in his chest.

Tomorrow, he'd apply for that barista position. Tomorrow, he'd call his mother. Tomorrow, he'd start over.

But tonight, he just needed to walk.