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, felin...