Lightning Over Third Base

The storm arrived while I was sorting through what remained of us. That's when the lightning struck—not the actual flash outside my window, but the sudden clarity that had been eluding me for months.

I held up the orange scarf she'd left behind. Still smelled like her perfume. Cheap citrus, she'd called it, but it was the scent of every Tuesday dinner, every Sunday morning, every moment I'd taken for granted.

The cat—her cat, technically—watched from his perch atop the bookshelf. He'd chosen me over her in the split. Maybe he knew who'd actually feed him. The dog, my old retriever, lay at my feet, too wise to offer comfort.

Baseball had been our thing. We'd met at a game, drunk on overpriced beer and the electric hope of opening day. Third base, section 204. I still had the stubs in my wallet. Last season, we stopped going. She said she'd gotten too busy. I pretended to believe her.

Another flash of lightning illuminated the room. The cat's eyes glowed briefly. The dog whimpered.

I'd always thought life would feel different when it fell apart. That there'd be warning signs, grand gestures, moments you could point to later and say, "There. That's where it ended." Instead, it was just this: a Tuesday evening, a cardboard box, an orange scarf, and the slow realization that some things don't break—they just quietly stop being true.

The storm passed as quickly as it arrived. I folded the scarf and placed it in the donation box. Some things you keep. Some things you let go.

The cat jumped down and approached the dog. They touched noses, brief alliance in the strange new architecture of our lives.

Tomorrow I'd call Sarah. Ask about those baseball tickets. Or maybe I wouldn't. Maybe that was the point. Maybe lightning only strikes once, and the rest is just waiting in the dark.