Electric Winter

Margot stood in her kitchen at 2 AM, staring at a wilting bag of spinach on the counter. Three days past its prime, much like her marriage. The expiration date had been a suggestion she'd chosen to ignore, right up until Simon packed his bags and walked out the door.

Her iPhone lit up the dark apartment — another notification from the divorce attorney. She'd stopped reading them hours ago. The device sat there like a small rectangular accusation, its battery draining in sync with something essential inside her.

Outside, lightning cracked the sky open. The storm had been threatening all evening, much like the conversation they'd never had. Not the one about who kept the apartment or how to divide their assets, but the one about why they'd stayed together three years past the point of love. What had they called it? Pragmatism? Companionship? The cowardice of two people afraid to start over?

At work, her boss had called her "a bull in a china shop" that afternoon. He meant it as criticism — she'd been too blunt in the meeting, too willing to say what everyone else was thinking. But Simon had used to say it affectionately, in bed sometimes, when she was being stubborn about something ridiculous. Which movie to watch. Where to order takeout. Small things that felt enormous then and meant nothing now.

Barnaby — Simon's cat, who'd somehow become her problem in the split — jumped onto the counter and nudged her hand with his head. The traitor. She'd never wanted a pet. Now this creature was the only living thing that expected anything from her.

"You miss him too, don't you?" she whispered, and the cat purred as if in agreement. Though maybe he just wanted the spinach.

Another flash of lightning illuminated the refrigerator, covered in wedding photos and magnets from places they'd never visited together. She reached for a magnet, then stopped. There would be time for that tomorrow. Tonight, she would make herself dinner. Even if the spinach was wilted. Even if she was eating alone again.

Margot turned on the stove, and for the first time in years, the kitchen felt entirely hers.