Electric Blue

The cat appeared at her window every Tuesday, exactly as Sarah was finishing her coffee. A ragged thing with one ear folded, watching her with the judgment only an animal can possess. Sarah hated it. The cat reminded her of David—how he'd strays feed, how he'd say, 'Everyone needs belonging, Sar.' Three years since the accident, and still every trigger was a landmine.

She threw on David's old fedora—a hat too large for her, smelling of cedar and the cigarettes he'd quit but she hadn't—and grabbed her groceries. The spinach was wilting. Everything in her life was wilting lately.

Lightning cracked the sky open as she stepped outside. The storm had been threatening all morning, and now it delivered—sheets of rain that turned the world into watercolor. Sarah ran for the subway station, hat clutched to her chest, groceries soaking through their paper bag.

Then she saw him.

A man in his thirties, standing motionless in the downpour, face upturned to the churning sky. He wore a suit that was already ruined, and he looked like he was waiting for something to strike him down. Or perhaps he'd already been struck.

The cat wound around his ankles, indifferent to the rain. He looked down, then noticed Sarah.

'He's been following me,' the man said. 'Since the hospital.' His voice cracked. 'My wife died on Tuesday.'

'Tuesday,' Sarah repeated.

'Every Tuesday, this cat appears. Like he knows.' He laughed darkly. 'I'm probably losing my mind.'

Sarah stepped closer, clutching David's hat. 'My husband died three years ago. In a storm like this.'

The man looked at her—really looked at her. Lightning flashed again, and in that electric blue moment, they were two people holding onto ghosts while the rain tried to wash them clean.

'The spinach is ruined,' Sarah said suddenly, gesturing to her bag.

He laughed. A real laugh this time. 'Yeah. Mine too probably.' He gestured to his briefcase.

'I'm Sarah.'

'James.' He paused. 'Want to get coffee? Somewhere dry?'

The cat rubbed against Sarah's leg, purring loudly. She looked at James—at his wet clothes, his sad eyes, the way his shoulders finally dropped from their defensive posture.

'Tuesday,' she said. 'Next Tuesday?'

'Every Tuesday,' he said, and they both understood they were making a promise to ghosts and strangers alike.