Storm Over Wilted Greens

Elena stood at the kitchen counter, her hands buried in a bag of fresh spinach. The leaves were cool against her fingers, still faintly damp from the grocery store mist. She tore them methodically, dropping them into the wooden bowl where they landed like green snowflakes.

David hadn't looked up from his phone since he'd walked through the door forty minutes ago. His thumb scrolled, scrolled, scrolled — a nervous tic that had once made her smile, now made her stomach tighten.

"The salad's ready," she said. Her voice sounded thin in the kitchen's silence.

"Mmhmm."

Outside, the sky had turned that peculiar shade of orange that comes just before a storm, when the clouds are so heavy they seem to press against the windows. It reminded her of their wedding reception three years ago — the sunset over the vineyard, the way everything had glowed gold and hopeful. They'd danced to a band that covered old Motown songs, and David had sung the wrong lyrics in her ear, laughing, spinning her until her dress flared like a bell.

The first flash of lightning cracked through the window, sudden and violent, illuminating David's face in harsh relief. He blinked.

"Storm's coming," he said, finally setting down his phone.

"Yes."

"I should tell you." His voice was barely audible over the rain that began to hammer against the glass. "There's someone else."

Elena's hands stilled in the spinach. For a moment she couldn't breathe — the air had left the room, leaving only the electric charge of his words, the white-blue glare of lightning that returned again and again like a strobe, freezing time in jagged snapshots. His face. The orange-darkened room. Her own hands, suspended above the salad bowl.

"How long?" she heard herself ask.

"Four months." He wouldn't meet her eyes. "I was going to tell you. I kept — there was never a right time."

"There isn't one," she said.

She finished tearing the spinach. Each leaf fell with terrible precision. Then she reached for the olive oil, her fingers steady, and poured a slow, golden stream over the greens. The rhythm of it anchored her somehow — the simple, honest work of feeding someone, even when you no longer knew who they were, or whether you'd still be here tomorrow.

"I'll go after the storm," David said quietly.

Elena nodded. She picked up the bowl and carried it to the table, setting it down between them like a peace offering, or perhaps a small green flag of surrender. The orange light had faded to gray. Somewhere beyond the kitchen, lightning continued to split the sky.