Grounded

The storm had been raging for three hours, each flash of lightning illuminating the wreckage of their marriage like a strobe at a crime scene. Sarah sat at the kitchen island, pushing spinach leaves around her plate with clinical detachment. She'd started eating healthy six months ago, around the time Mark had started coming home late.

"The cable's out," Mark said from the living room, where he'd been strategically avoiding eye contact since dinner. "No internet, no TV. Nothing."

"Nothing's working," she agreed, and they both pretended she wasn't talking about them.

The baby monitor crackled with static from their daughter's room downstairs, then went silent. Silence had become its own form of communication in their house — a language of avoidance, of carefully maintained distances. Sarah stood up, her bare feet cold on the tile floor. She walked to the sink and turned on the faucet. Water poured out, clear and indifferent.

"I got the promotion," Mark said suddenly, like he'd been holding it hostage.

She watched the water swirl down the drain. "That's wonderful."

"We could move. Get that house in Vermont you wanted."

Outside, lightning struck close, and the kitchen flooded with harsh white light. In that second, she saw everything: his hopeful expression, the spinach still vibrant on her abandoned plate, the frayed cable of the toaster they kept meaning to replace, the water still running, wasting, washing nothing clean.

"Spinach goes bad fast," she said instead. "Even in the refrigerator. Even when you're trying to do everything right."

"Sarah—"

"I saw the texts, Mark."

The water kept flowing. Somewhere in the distance, thunder caught up with the lightning.

"It wasn't—"

"Save it." She turned off the faucet. "The cable's out. Can't even lie to me properly without decent WiFi."

"I love you," he tried, and it sounded like a question he'd forgotten the answer to.

She picked up her plate, the spinach wilting now, sad and abandoned. "Love isn't enough anymore. Some things spoil even when you keep them cold."

Another flash of lightning, and this time, she didn't look away.