melted

houston astronomical

there's a little ritual he does right before every at bat. kicks some dirt around on the pitcher's mound, shifts from side to side. adjusts his cap, dusting off the brim. goes for the wind up, and then stops. a well-placed wink to the left field's dugout with a strikeout to accompany. so the game goes, throw after throw.
they say she's a good luck charm. she's never been to texas but she sits by herself right behind the dugout. a lone star, shining at every game, every practice. zips and unzips her backpack, clips her keys to her belt, a nervous tic. she never screams, but her eyes plead and succeed with win after win.
they are glorious. stellar, to the stars. the tension reaches a fever pitch in the night. she hits a home run when he pitches, masked by moonlight. he kisses her behind the bleachers, covered in clay stains. the diamonds in the sky mirror their movements as they round the bases, home safe in each others' arms.
an unprecedented sweep for the team. no losses the whole season but one. the seat right above the dugout is empty, and his wink has faded from the lineup. the days go by, and they wonder on their own, wishing on pop flies, uncaught.