Electrical Storm at Sunset

Margaret stood by the edge of the infinity pool, nursing her third glass of expensive chardonnay. The company retreat had been Richard's idea—Richard, with his perfect teeth and his wife's identical blonde hair, and the way he'd looked at Margaret across the conference room table for six months.

"You're not going in?" Richard asked, appearing beside her. He held a cocktail umbrella like it was a tiny weapon.

Margaret touched her chin-length bob self-consciously. "Forgot my suit. Also forgot how to pretend this is fun."

Richard laughed, but his eyes kept darting toward the main house where his wife was entertaining the CEO's grotesque pug—that trembling, hairless creature that had spent the evening growling at anyone who came near Richard's shoes. The dog hated her. Margaret found herself weirdly allied with it.

"You know what's funny?" Richard said, lowering his voice. "I almost called you last night."

Lightning split the sky beyond the pool, illuminating the rolling vineyard for one stark second. The storm had been threatening all evening.

"Almost," Margaret said. "That word does a lot of heavy lifting for you."

Someone's straw hat blew off the table and tumbled into the water, drifting like a small abandoned boat. Neither of them moved to retrieve it.

"I'm leaving Laura," Richard said, finally, as the first raindrops began to spot the concrete around their feet. "Monday. I swear."

Margaret had heard this four times. Each time, she'd believed him a little less, and hated herself a little more for still wanting to. She set down her glass and turned away from the pool, from him, from the lightning painting the horizon in violent flashes.

"The dog is growling at you again," she said. "Even the animals know you're lying."

She walked toward the house through the warm rain, not looking back at Richard or the hat floating aimlessly in the dark water, finally understanding that some storms you had to let break over you before you could see clearly again.