It begins, perhaps, with a phone call, a cryptic message left on an answering machine. It begins with a bat, with a bucket of balls, with hesitant smiles giving way to peals of laughter under a clear, starlit sky.

When the basket is empty, when the makeshift pitcher has gone, when the lights of the cages flicker and go dark, this, then, is where it ends.

The starry dark is comforting and distancing at the same time. She is glad that he cannot see the flush of her cheeks. He misses the radiant glow of her smile. The teasing banter and childish giggles have evaporated, leaving in their wake an awkward silence, a clumsy stillness that feels, for them, unnatural.

 

 

 

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