Fruit of the Storm

The lightning struck somewhere beyond the hills, a silent fracture in the sky that illuminated the pool in our backyard—its surface like a bruised mirror, catching momentary flashes of white. I floated on my back, contemplating divorce, while somewhere inside the house, David was probably asleep on the couch. We'd stopped sleeping in the same bed three months ago, around the time his mother died and he stopped remembering to feed himself.

Our old golden retriever, Barnaby, had died two years prior. David had wanted another dog immediately. I'd said no, not yet, and eventually not ever. Some griefs don't need companionship; they need their own quiet room. Now Barnaby's absence was everywhere—a hollow in the hallway where he'd slept, the lack of clicking claws on tile, the way the house felt too large without something alive padding through it.

I'd bought papayas at the market that morning, their skins mottled like bruises, softening in the bowl on the counter. David hated them. Said they tasted like soap and despair. I'd started buying them when he stopped noticing what I ate. The same way I'd started putting spinach in everything—smoothies, eggs, pasta—a quiet rebellion, green and bitter and mine.

The pool lights flickered as another storm cell moved in. I'd learned to swim only last year, at thirty-seven, afraid of water my whole life until I realized fear was just another form of stagnation. Now I came here most nights, weightless in the chlorine and darkness, practicing for whatever came next.

The papayas would be overripe by morning. Their sweetness would turn to fermentation, that dangerous edge where abundance begins to rot. Like us. Like love, sometimes. Like anything you leave unattended in the dark.

I rolled onto my stomach and began to swim laps, counting strokes, until my muscles burned and the water stopped feeling like something to fear. Lightning cracked again, closer this time, and I thought: let it strike. Some things need to end before they can begin again.