The Brightest Flash

Marcus watched the **baseball** game alone, the glow of the television illuminating his whiskey glass. Another loss. His marriage was at 0-2 in the bottom of the ninth, and he'd stopped swinging months ago.

"You need to take your **vitamin**," Sarah said from the kitchen doorway, not looking at him. She held out the orange bottle like an accusation. Her hair was wet, darkened by the rain she'd walked through to get to their apartment.

The **lightning** that flashed through the window made her face flicker—first gentle wife, then exhausted stranger, then something in between that broke his heart.

"I ate," he lied. He'd thrown out the **spinach** she'd bought three days ago. It had turned to slime in the crisper drawer, much like his promises to try harder, to be present, to stop disappearing into work and whiskey and whatever numbness he could find.

Sarah walked to the sink and ran the **water**, letting it cascade over her hands. She'd been doing that a lot lately—washing things that didn't need washing, scrubbing dishes already clean.

"My mother called," she said over the sound of running water. "She asked how the IVF is going."

Marcus's stomach twisted. They'd cancelled the treatments. He'd told her he couldn't afford another cycle, but the truth was simpler: he wasn't sure he wanted to bring a child into a marriage that felt like walking through a room full of furniture with the lights out.

"What did you say?"

"I said we're taking time." She turned off the water and faced him. "I didn't say whose time."

Another flash of lightning. The television cheered—someone had hit a home run. Marcus felt like he was watching his own life from the cheap seats, some distant spectator waiting for a game that had already ended.

"Sarah—"

"Don't," she said softly. "Just take the damn vitamin, Marcus."

He swallowed it dry. It tasted like everything he'd forgotten how to say.