The Seventh Inning Stretch

The baseball stadium lights hummed against the twilight, that electric buzz that always made Sarah's skin prickle. She peeling an orange, the citrus spray sharp against the smell of beer and popcorn. Her hands trembled slightly—just enough that she noticed.

"You're being impossible," David said, not looking at her. His eyes tracked the batter, some rookie whose name neither of them knew. "Like always."

"I'm being impossible?" Sarah laughed, bitter and jagged. "That's rich, coming from you. The man who charged into every conversation like a bull in a china shop, leaving nothing but wreckage behind."

The crowd erupted as the ball connected, soaring toward the left-field stands. David flinched at the noise, jaw working. Sarah watched the juice from her orange stain her fingers—sticky, bright, impossible to ignore. Like everything else between them lately.

"Your mother called again," David said, finally turning to face her. His expression was that familiar combination of exhaustion and something harder, something that had been growing for years. "She invited us to dinner Sunday."

"And what did you say?"

"I said we'd think about it."

Sarah finished sectioning the orange. She placed one wedge in her mouth, the burst of flavor overwhelming, almost violent. It reminded her of their honeymoon in Barcelona, of how David had bought her oranges from a street vendor every morning, how he'd looked at her then like she was the only thing worth seeing in the world.

"You know what she'll say," Sarah said quietly. "She'll ask about the promotion. She'll ask when we're having children. She'll look at me like I'm failing at both."

"And you'll let it get to you, like you always do."

The bull mascot was dancing on the dugout now, surrounded by screaming children. Sarah watched its foam head bob, its painted smile frozen in endless cheer. She thought about stubbornness—how it calcified into something else over time, something that felt like protection but was really just fear.

"I'm not failing," she said, more to herself than to him.

David's shoulders dropped. The fight went out of him, leaving only weariness in its wake. "I know," he said. "I never said you were."

The seventh inning stretch announcement crackled over the PA system. Everyone stood, stretching limbs grown stiff from sitting. Sarah stood too, wiping her sticky fingers on a napkin. David reached for her hand, hesitated, then took it anyway.

His palm was warm. Familiar. Hers.

The orange peel lay between them on the seats, bright against the gray plastic. A small mess. A manageable one.

"One more inning?" David asked.

Sarah nodded. "One more."