Elective Currents

The lightning struck somewhere behind the convention center, a white crack that split the humidity-soaked air. Sarah checked her phone again. Still no reply from Marcus.

She sat by the hotel pool, clutching a plastic cup of something neon and violently sweet. The bartender had called it a "Sunset Fizz"—more appropriate than he knew, given the streak of bruised orange spreading across the sky like a bruise. It was the color of warning signs. The color of the "URGENT: FINAL NOTICE" envelope sitting on her kitchen counter at home.

"You're going to miss it," said a voice beside her.

Sarah startled. A man in a rumpled suit stood there, tie loosened, clutching his own drink. "The conference," he said. "Your name tag says you're with Thornton & Ross. They're presenting in five minutes."

"I'm not presenting. I'm just... swimming." The word tasted wrong as she said it. She wasn't swimming. She was drowning, slowly, in three different directions.

The man laughed, short and surprised. "Swimming. That's one way to put it." He sat on the adjacent lounge chair without asking. "I'm Dave. Marketing. I'm supposed to be networking, but I keep thinking about my cat. He's probably dead by now."

"I'm sorry," Sarah said automatically.

"Don't be. He was seventeen. Had a good run." Dave took a sip of his drink. "What's your emergency?"

"Excuse me?"

"We're all here for a reason. Nobody sits by the pool during the keynote session unless something's wrong." Another flash of lightning illuminated his face—tired eyes, a nervous habit of rubbing his thumb against his wedding ring. "So, what is it? Divorce? Layoffs? Existential dread?"

"All three," she said, surprised by her own honesty. "And the house. I might lose the house."

Dave nodded, like this confirmed something. "My wife wants a baby. I don't know if I want to be a father. Every time I think about it, I feel like I'm underwater and can't remember how to swim." He gestured toward the pool with his drink. "You know what's funny? We're adults. We're supposed to have figured this stuff out by now."

"I don't think that ever happens," Sarah said. "I think we just get better at pretending."

The first raindrop hit the orange surface of her drink, sending tiny ripples across the liquid. Then another. Within seconds, the sky opened up, drowning out the conference center's muffled announcements, drowning out everything except the sound of water on water and the electric space between storms where anything seemed possible.

Dave stood up. "I should go back in there. Make some contacts. Pretend I know what I'm doing."

He extended a hand. Sarah took it, his palm warm and solid against hers.

"Sarah," she said.

"Good luck, Sarah."

"You too, Dave."

He walked away, back toward the fluorescent lights and air-conditioned certainty. Sarah stayed outside, letting the rain flatten her hair and her carefully curated presentation, feeling, for the first time in months, like she could finally breathe.