Electric Storms and Small Exits

The last thing Marcus said before leaving was something about the cable bill. Elena stood in their kitchen, rain drumming against the window, watching lightning fractal the sky in violent purples. She was holding a bag of spinach she'd forgotten to refrigerate, the leaves already wilting in the humidity.

Their dog, a golden retriever named Bowie who had chosen Marcus over her three months into the separation, pressed his wet nose against her calf. He was still confused by the alternating schedule, the way his humans moved like satellites around separate orbits. She knelt, burying her hands in his ruff, breathing in his rain-sharp scent.

"You too, huh?" she whispered. "Stuck in the middle."

He licked her palm, a small forgiveness.

The mediation had been scheduled for next Tuesday. She'd spent Sunday gathering documents, tax returns, correspondence. But the file folder lay untouched on the counter. Instead, she found herself remembering the night they'd met, how lightning had knocked out power at the gallery opening. They'd talked for hours in the dark, sharing a bottle of wine they'd opened with someone's Swiss Army knife. He'd traced the life line on her palm and said, "You're going to live a long one. Full of surprises."

He'd been right about the surprises, at least.

She looked at the spinach again, considering whether to cook it or throw it out. In their first apartment, broke and happy, they'd made endless variations of pasta with whatever was wilting in the crisper. Creative, they'd called it. Now it just felt like decay.

Her phone buzzed. Marcus: "Forgot Bowie's heart meds. Can you drop them?"

Elena stared at the message. The cable company called. The dog needed medication. The spinach was dying. All these small threads still binding them together, an electric fence she kept shocking herself against.

Outside, the storm broke. Lightning illuminated the yard where Bowie's empty doghouse sat, a little wooden monument to a life she didn't live anymore.

She dropped the spinach in the trash. Let it rot there, alongside everything else.

The pills were in the cabinet by the sink where she kept her toothpaste. She found them easily, the bottle smooth against her thumb. Bowie watched her, tail thumping against the cabinet door.

"I'll be right back," she told him.

She grabbed her keys, her coat. She would drop off the medication. She would return Bowie's heart pills, and she would keep her heart elsewhere. Sometimes the smallest exits were the hardest to find.

The lightning flashed again as she opened the door. She stepped into the storm.