Electric Currents

Mara stood at the kitchen counter, staring at the wilted spinach in her colander. Forty-two years old and still trying to convince herself that she liked things she actually hated—health food, stability, Paul.

Outside, lightning fractured the sky, illuminating the backyard where their golden retriever, Buster, chased invisible prey through the rain. She watched him shiver violently against the glass door and felt something crack open in her chest.

"You're overthinking again," Paul had said that morning, handing her a clementine from the bowl on their way out. "Just eat the orange and come to dinner. My boss is finally meeting us."

The orange had sat in her purse all day, growing warm, its skin growing soft. She'd forgotten it existed until now, pulling it out like a secret. The citrus scent hit her—sharp, bright, impossible to ignore.

She remembered swimming in Lake Superior with her college boyfriend, the water so cold it burned, how they'd dared each other to stay under longer. How she'd felt more alive in those freezing depths than she had in years of marriage.

The front door opened. Paul's voice, cheerful, exhausted. "Mara? You'll never guess what happened—"

Lightning struck closer this time. The kitchen went bright as a camera flash. In that instant, she saw everything clearly: the spinach she'd force herself to cook, the promotion she'd pretended to want, the life she'd carefully built like a structure of matchsticks.

"Mara?"

She set the orange on the counter. The dog scratched at the glass door, wanting in from the storm.

"I'm going swimming," she said.

"What? In this weather?"

"No. At Lake Superior. Tomorrow morning."

Paul laughed. Nervous, confused. "Okay. Sure. But dinner—"

"Keep it." She grabbed her keys. "The spinach, the promotion, the life where I don't feel cold enough to know I'm alive. Keep it all."

She walked out into the rain, leaving Paul standing in their kitchen, leaving the orange on the counter like a small, bright moon she'd finally decided not to swallow.