Early summer, early in the 20th century. The sun is low in the horizon as I sit on a wooden set of bleachers waiting on the end of a minor league baseball game. I am wearing a casual short-sleeved summer dress of blue calico with small flowers. Even with my hair fashionably tied up on my head, the evening is hot and I fan myself to dissipate the heat. The team I am there to see is ahead by one, their pitcher on the mound, the outfield tensed to attack anything the batter might get ahold of. The uniforms are crisp white, with red pinstripes running from the top of their collar-less shirts to the bottom of their knee-length pants.
I am here because I know what the future holds. Tonight will be his last night pitching. I don't know how I know this, and it seems to have no affect on me. I will do nothing to change it.
He throws his final pitch and strikes the batter out. His teammates assault him on the mound, elated to have won their game.
I climb down from the bleachers, carefully watching each step my navy low heels take and wait by the gate for him. He arrives and puts his arm around my waist, his colleagues still slapping his back, and congratulating him.
We all arrived at the apartment complex and pushed the furniture out of the living room. The Victrola was turned on, and the dancing began. This was a celebration. It was to be his last celebration. He spun me around the room as more guests arrived and filled the space. Food was brought in and lined along the kitchen cabinets. I knew something on that buffet would poison him and lead to his death. I would do nothing to stop it. Not because I hate him, because it was inevitable, and not my place or purpose to change his path.
We danced in the stairwell of the complex and outdoors. Late in the evening, as the dew settled on the grass, we said our goodbyes in the courtyard.
In a few days, he would be dead.
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