WHAT THE BASEBALL SAW

The sun beats down on my back at Wrigley Field. I’m the world’s best slugger, gripping the bat like a white-knuckle handjob. An irresponsible attempt at pleasure. Giving road head while tailgating an eighteen-wheeler.

You sit in the shade of the stands like you have skin in the game. We both know exactly where this ball is gonna land.

The baseball sits on your bedside table the first time we fuck. It’s a monument for chance. A shrine to the risk of striking out. I tell you I don’t even like baseball. You say we’re gonna change that while wrapping your hand around my neck. You push into me, imparting your love of the sport.

I wake up in your bed from a nightmare about apples. Absinthe still on our breath. I roll over to hold you. The baseball stares at us from the table. It whispers a warning.

My blood stains your sheets like a Rorschach test. In it, I see your head between my legs. A baseball bat making contact. I can see everything I like about you. The outline of your nose. The butts of every cigarette you’ve smoked. My envy of those cigarettes, for I wish to be inhaled into your lungs. I throw the sheet over the blood. I’ve seen too much.

Eventually, I must return to home plate. I fear if we drive off together, my head will end up in your lap. And the eighteen-wheelers would take us out completely. Maybe this was what the baseball was warning us about. Pursuing pleasure. Drunkenly stumbling from lust to love.

Goodbye. I know I will see you again. You love the sport too much to stay away. And I’ll look for you in every stadium crowd.