The Things We Leave Behind

The spinach had gone slimy in the crisper drawer, just like everything else in this godforsaken week. Sarah pulled it out and made a face — three days past its prime, much like their marriage.

In the living room, the baseball game droned on. Some team playing some other team, the announcer's voice a low rumble that had become the soundtrack to their silence. Mark sat in his recliner, thumbing through his iphone like he was searching for something he'd lost.

"You going to eat that?" she asked, holding up the bag.

He didn't look up. "What?"

"The spinach. It's bad."

"Oh. No."

She dumped it in the trash. The sound seemed too loud in the apartment.

Earlier, she'd gone running, six miles along the river path, pushing herself until her lungs burned and her legs shook. It was the only thing that quieted the noise in her head anymore. That, and the dog — Buster, who was currently curled in his bed, oblivious to the fact that his owners were essentially roommates now.

Her phone buzzed. A text from him: *Can we talk tonight?*

Sarah stared at it. The iphone screen reflected her tired eyes, the faint lines that had appeared around them this past year. She typed: *About what?*

*Us. About everything. *

She set the phone on the counter and looked out the window. The city was moving, people living their lives, falling in love, breaking up, starting over. Meanwhile, she was stuck in this endless inning, waiting for someone to call the game.

"Sarah?" Mark's voice came from the living room.

She turned. He was finally looking at her, really looking at her, for what felt like the first time in months.

"I'm going to stay at my sister's for a few days," she said.

The baseball game continued in the background. In the distance, someone's dog barked. And somewhere outside, someone was running toward something or away from something, just trying to keep moving forward.

"Okay," Mark said.

That was all. Just okay. She nodded once, grabbed her running shoes and her iphone, and walked out the door, leaving the spinach in the trash and the life they'd built together suspended in the space between innings.