In The Bleachers

His lips move almost imperceptibly. It's difficult to make out what he's mouthing as he sits on the top bench of the bleachers watching rec league coed slowpitch. Sad eyes, beautiful skin, somewhere around 28. It's a hot, humid, oppressively sticky late summer eve and he's wearing a navy blue hoodie over a button down shirt, dark blue jeans, and innocuous sneakers, not too flashy but still sorta hip. He's clean, healthy looking, with good hands. He's perched, sitting very still; contained, but not tense. No air of anxiety. He could be high, maybe medicated. Every time she walks back from the plate to the bench they make eye contact. Hold it a beat too long. It's his eyes. Blue, clear, curious but not in a disarmingly strange way. He's watching the game, attentive to every pitch, every swing, hit and miss. When he looks away it's not with embarrassment or discomfort. He simply shifts focus while staying completely present. There's a languid, feline quality to his movement, but not so far as to be predatory, by any means. More of a loping feral lost adolescent kitten. From the dugout she turns around, views him through the chain link over her right shoulder. His lips start moving again. She can't look away but he's oblivious to her staring. He stops suddenly, adjusts his hoody, folds in on himself marginally, looks down at his hands on his lap, then raises his head and focuses back on the game. She wonders if he's counting pitches or running lines; maybe writing out loud, having conversations with the voices in his head. She gets that. He stands up and steps off the bench from the highest platform as if it were 6' off the ground. He catches her eye one last time then darts his gaze away. Something has changed, but she'll never know what. He crosses the grassy hill behind the diamond and edges his way into the street, oblivious to oncoming traffic. Thoroughly lost in his own head now, miles away from their game. Gone for good.