The Dog in the Rain

Margaret stood outside the restaurant, rain plastering her hair to her skull, watching through the window as David laughed at something the younger woman said. The dog tied to the bike rack—some honey-colored retriever—shook itself violently, spraying water in every direction. Margaret wished she could do the same. Shake off this marriage of seventeen years, this life that had somehow become someone else's.

She'd forgotten her umbrella. Forgotten her pride, too, apparently, showing up at his workplace like this. But the lawyers had mentioned the phrase "irreconcilable differences" so many times it had started to sound like a challenge. She wanted to see if there was anything left to reconcile.

The retriever's owner emerged, a man in a tweed hat that had seen better decades. He untied the dog, and they both vanished into the downpour. Margaret checked her reflection in the darkened glass. Fifty years old, and she was the one lurking in alleys, playing detective in her own disintegrating life.

Her phone buzzed. David. She let it go to voicemail.

At home, the house felt cavernous. She'd boxed his books, his clothes, the coffee maker he'd insisted on—the one that made that terrible gurgling sound like something drowning. All that remained of him were the things she'd never liked: his ridiculous collection of vintage hats, the way he left spinach stuck in his teeth at dinner parties, oblivious to her silent signals.

The dog from the restaurant appeared in her memory suddenly, shaking itself dry. That was what she needed to do. Not shake off David—he was already gone—but shake off the version of herself that had stayed too long, compromised too much, accepted spinach in her teeth and silence at dinner.

She ran a bath, watched the water rise. The bathroom mirror showed her a woman she was just beginning to recognize. Not David's wife. Not the mother of children who'd flown. Just Margaret, standing on the precipice of whatever came next.

The rain had stopped. Through the window, the streetlights reflected on wet pavement like scattered jewels. Tomorrow, she'd buy an umbrella. Tomorrow, she'd adopt that dog from the shelter she'd been considering. Tomorrow, she'd start becoming whoever she was meant to be.

But tonight, she would just breathe.