You sit with your leg touching my leg.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Your seat is so close to mine but that’s fine. After all, it’s not your fault. That’s how they built the ball park. The sun sets in the sky in Queens. The lights gleam as it gets dark.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Down on the field the player takes his place behind the plate, lifts his bat, and shows his face. The pitcher sends a fastball screaming, then – CRACK – it soars up high, just out of sight in the New York night, before descending towards an open glove in center field.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The runner on third base tags and turns tail, shirt flapping like a sail, the ball speeding through the air towards home. But the runner’s path is clear and the fans all cheer, though bittersweetly. It cost an out to score so neatly.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
You sit with your leg touching my leg.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
You smile as you bite into your hot dog, mustard dripping down your mouth. I hand you a napkin and instead you pull my head close and kiss me with your stained lips. I spill my beer and stain both our shirts, but we just laugh and lean against each other, making the most of the mess we’ve made together.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
You sit with your leg touching my leg, your hand touching my hand, your cheek touching my cheek–<\/p>\n\n\n\n
And I think of all the parts of me I pitched to you, the parts I never meant to show, the parts that helped me grow which I feared you’d never want to hear.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I think of how I thought I’d have to throw out all those parts to run towards home, towards your legs, your lips, your hands, your cheeks.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
You’re always running – rather, flying – towards me, never asking me to sacrifice what makes me me, as I would never ask the same of you.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
You sit with your leg touching my leg.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Our team ends up losing.<\/p>\n\n\n\n