THREE STRIKES

One late afternoon they were sitting at the dining room table with a bowl of old apples between them, she lolling on her elbows after a long day at work. She finished her sandwich and picked up the small glass plate to lick off the spilled peanut butter and jelly.

“My granny always said I was uncouth,” she lied.

“I was going to take you out to dinner tonight, but I’m seriously reconsidering it,” he said, unseriously. Then, “I have a question for you.”

She threw up her hands as if to ward it off.

“What’s going on between us?” he asked.

The room was getting dark, she noticed. She began picking at the splintering edge of the table top.

“Oh, Zeke…I don’t want to get involved.”

“Give me one good reason.”

“Because you’re going away…because you’re on the rebound…because we’re too different…”

“Three strikes and I’m out?”

She sighed roughly.

“But I love you,” he said quietly.

“You do?” she asked.

“Well, maybe not the forever kind of love—that takes time,” he red face got redder, “but, yes, Seely, I do.”