Page 59 of The Woman in 3B
I really enjoyed going to baseball games. The crack of the bat. The scent of grilled meat and roasted peanuts. Vendors hoofing up the steep stadium stairs, barking their wares. Kids with baseball mitts and sticky cotton candy fingers. Millennials taking selfies and paying more attention to their phones than to the game.
Comerica Park was a newer stadium, but that didn’t mean extra leg room. Wasted space was lost money. The irony wasn’t lost on me. I spent my workdays wedged into tight, confined spaces; I was spending my day off doing the same thing. The narrow seating arrangements meant that Anissa and I were practically pressed together in our assigned seats. Every time I took a bite of my hot dog or reached for the beer in the cup holder in front of me, my arm brushed against her shoulder or bumped into her thigh.
The afternoon sun was hot and our seats’ positions provided no shelter from its unforgiving rays. I could feel the sweat start to trickle down the small of my back in my extra-large t-shirt. Anissa looked undisturbed and unaffected by the heat while I wilted under the extreme conditions.
I tried to tease away my insecurities. “You look like a professional in that jersey. Sure you’re not actually on the team?”
“I could probably field better than half the infield,” she said, frowning slightly. “When’s the last time we went through a complete game without an error?”
She spoke like she knew the sport, more than the casual fan.
“Do you go to a lot of games?” I asked.
She shook her head. “I haven’t been to too many recently—not since the team went all-in on the rebuild. I don’t know how you go from winning the American League pennant in 2012 to rebuilding. Avila made a huge mistake when he didn’t give up Fulmer for Javier Baez or Alex Bregman. It could be worst though,” she mused aloud. “I remember when we broke an MLB record in 2003 for losing 119 games in a single season. Those aren’t the kinds of records you want your team making.”
My eyes widened with each new statistic and observation. “You’re beautifulandyou know about baseball? Where have you been hiding all my life?”
My outburst of exuberance had me back-peddling. “I mean, uh, it’s cool you’re into sports or whatever.”
She smiled at me, earnest and indulgent. “I like you, too, Alice.”
I rubbed the back of my neck. “Oh, okay. Cool. I mean, uh, that’s good.”
She squeezed the top of my knee affectionately, and I felt its aftershocks traverse the rest of my body.
I did a mental victory dance when she kept her hand resting on my thigh during the game, removing it only to clap when our team did something good—which wasn’t too often. Anissa didn’t talk much during the game, which I actually appreciated. I tended to get annoyed by fans who chatted about banal topics during a game instead of actually watching the contest. If I had wanted constant conversation, I would have gone to a coffeeshop or a bar.
The weight of her hand felt good on my knee. Solid. Reassuring. My extra-large t-shirt might have been an unwise fashion choice, but I was thankful for my decision to wear jeans to the game. Without the denim barrier between her palm and my knee, I would have sweat all over her hand.
As the game neared the seventh inning stretch, I noticed our empty cups.
“Do you want a refill?” I offered.”Or something else to eat?”
Anissa’s eyes turned from the playing field to me. “You don’t have to wait on me, you know,” she noted. “You do enough of that in the air.”
“I like it when it’s you,” I said in earnest.
Her lips twisted in contemplation. “Okay. But maybe a bottled water this time? I don’t think there’s any more room in my stomach after that giant beer,” she said, motioning to our giant, empty cups.
I nodded. “One bottled water, coming right up.”
Before I could stand up, her hand fell again to my knee and the other to the side of my face. She drew me in for a soft, unexpected kiss that had my toes curling in my sandals.
“Hurry back,” she quietly murmured, pulling away. Her hand went to my hair and she brushed at some of the fly-a-ways that had worked their way out of my ball cap. “I don’t want you missing the game.”
It was too easy to get lost in the golden depths of her pooling eyes; I nearly forgot where we were and what I was supposed to be doing. Each kiss, each touch, had me yearning for more.
“I’ll be right back,” I managed to choke out.
I hustled to the closest concession stand with refrains of “Take Me Out the Ballpark” ringing in my ears. I outwardly groaned when I saw the length of the food and drink lines. Flat-screen TVs positioned around the area were live-broadcasting the game, but I wasn’t worried about missing a home run. I wanted to get back to my seat so I didn’t miss out on Anissa. I licked my lips as my thoughts drifted back to her and her baseball jersey. A beautiful, brainy woman who wasn’t afraid of public displays of affection, and it was I who was the recipient of that affection.
The concession line moved too slowly, but I didn’t have much choice but to endure. My feet shuffled on concrete as we inched forward. I felt like I spent my life waiting. Waiting for a flight to arrive. Waiting for late passengers to get to the gate so the plane could leave. Waiting for the final person to deplane so we could clean the plane and go home.
After what felt like an eternity, I was finally able to purchase two bottles of water. Truthfully, I probably would have gotten myself another beer, but Anissa and I had consumed alcohol each time we’d hung out outside of work. Flight crews had reputations for being big drinkers—specific regulations had been put in place to make sure we didn’t drink too close to our next flight because it was such an entrenched problem—and I didn’t want her to think I fit that stereotype so early into a relationship.
Relationship.The word made me simultaneously giddy and light-headed. Was this a relationship? Or, was I someone she hung out with and sometimes had sex with? I envied my eleven-year-old self when passing notes containing the question ‘Will you be my girlfriend, circle yes or no’ could clear up any ambiguity.
I returned to our section, a bottled water in each hand. I surveyed the area where we’d been sitting, but I didn’t see Anissa. Our empty plastic beer cups were still in their respective cupholders and the wax wrapping from our hot dogs were crumpled up evidence beneath the stadium seating. I even double-checked my paper ticket to make sure I hadn’t gone to the wrong section, but Anissa had definitely disappeared.
