Electric Storm

The storm broke just as Marcus's hand found my thigh under the table, his fingers rough and demanding through the silk of my dress. Outside floor-to-ceiling windows, lightning fractured the sky, illuminating the private dining room where my colleagues discussed quarterly projections with wine-stained lips.

'I never took you for a padel player,' he whispered, his breath hot against my ear, referring to the corporate tournament he'd watched me dominate that afternoon—my skirt flashing with each aggressive swing, my competitive streak not lost on him.

My iphone buzzed on the table. Tom's name lit up the screen. My husband, asking if I'd pick up spinach for dinner. The domestic ordinariness of the message made something in my chest tighten.

Marcus was the bull everyone warned me about—aggressive, territorial, charging through obstacles. He'd made partner by thirty-five through sheer force of personality. I was thirty-eight, tired of being competent and reliable, tired of a marriage that felt like two acquaintances sharing a mortgage and a Netflix password.

'You're thinking too much,' Marcus murmured, his hand sliding higher. 'Let yourself want something for once.'

Lightning struck closer, and for a terrifying second, I considered it. The recklessness, the destruction it would cause. The way it would make me feel something—anything—besides the quiet erosion happening in my own life.

Then my phone chimed again. Tom: 'Made that pasta you like. Waiting for you.'

I pulled Marcus's hand away, stood up, gathered my things. 'I need to go home.'

'You're making a mistake,' he said, voice hard.

'Maybe,' I replied. 'But it'll be my own.'

The storm followed me all the way home, each flash of lightning illuminating the road ahead—uncertain, but mine to choose.