Electric Remedies

The storm broke just as Elena discovered the bottle of prenatal vitamins in Marcus's bathroom cabinet. Two years expired. A fossil from the life they'd planned but never lived. She stared at the white plastic cylinder, lightning flashing beyond the frosted window, illuminating her betrayal.

His cat, Barnaby, wound through her legs, purring with the indifference of creatures who know they'll be fed regardless of human heartbreak. Elena had never liked cats—they were too self-sufficient, too unlike dogs who needed you. Now she understood their wisdom. Barnaby had watched their three-year relationship dissolve in slow motion, had witnessed Marcus packing his boxes last week, had probably known before Elena did.

She swept the vitamins into the trash. The gesture felt insufficient.

Another lightning strike shook the building. The power flickered and died, leaving her in the gray wash of stormlight. Perfect. Darkened apartment, expired vitamins, a borrowed cat. Marcus's apartment now, technically. She was supposed to be clearing out her things.

Instead, she sat on the floor, and Barnaby leaped into her lap. His weight was reassuring. He smelled like Marcus's laundry detergent—cedar and something synthetic. She buried her face in his fur.

"You're going with him," she told the cat. "Not that he deserves you."

Barnaby kneaded her thighs, claws pricking through denim. The vitamin deficiency wasn't prenatal, she realized. It was something else entirely. Something about loving someone who treated your shared future as optional, who made plans that could be postponed indefinitely without consequence. She'd been supplementing a relationship that had already hollowed out, taking emotional multivitamins for a soul that was starving.

Lightning fractured the sky again, closer this time. The accompanying thunder rattled the windowpanes.

Elena stood up, Barnaby sliding to the floor with a complaining chirp. She gathered her things efficiently—three boxes, twelve years of accumulated belongings reduced to what could fit in her hatchback. The vitamins stayed in the trash. Barnaby watched from the counter.

"Goodbye, Barnaby," she said, and meant it.

The storm had passed by the time she locked the door behind her. Streetlights reflected on wet pavement, everything made strange and new in the aftermath. She breathed air that didn't smell like Marcus's apartment, like cedar and resignation.

Her phone buzzed—Marcus, wondering where she was. She declined the call. Some deficiencies couldn't be supplemented. Some things had to be grown from scratch.