“I don’t know about you, but I’m going to wear
the hell out of my white slacks this weekend.”
He sent the message and turned on the game.
He opened a beer. She poured a drink.
He opened a third, he opened a seventh.
Only then did he notice the sexual tension
in the catcher/umpire relationship.
The second inning deteriorated into the third.
He asked, “How would you kill me?”
She readily answered, “Oh, with a paring knife,
in Tulsa, in October, after watching The Last Waltz
in a motel with no room numbers or ice machine.”
He loved her commitment to detail, but feared
her commitment to detail, and late inning ties.
In the bottom of the fourth, he considered
extracting atropine from their nightshade
to top up her gin and gin and gin and soda.