The Electric Taste of Goodbye

The storm outside was nothing compared to the one in our kitchen. Lightning fractured the sky, illuminating everything in stroboscopic bursts—the dust on the windowsill, the half-empty wineglass, the way your hair fell across your face like a dark curtain you kept trying to see through.

"You're not listening," you said, not looking at me. You were peeling an orange, your fingers stained with citrus oil. The scent filled the small space between us, sharp and clean and entirely incongruous with the wreckage of our five-year conversation.

"I am," I said. But I wasn't. I was watching the way your hands moved, remembering how they'd looked wrapped around other things—steering wheels, coffee mugs, someone else's wrist in a photograph I wasn't supposed to find.

The power chose that moment to die. We were plunged into darkness, save for the lightning's intermittent revelations. In the sudden quiet, the refrigerator's hum vanished. The rain on the roof became deafening.

You laughed—a short, bitter sound. "Of course."

"What?"

"Perfect timing, right? The universe has a sense of humor."

You moved toward the sink, and I heard water running. You were washing your hands, scrubbing away the orange juice, the evidence of anything so ordinary as fruit. As if you could wash everything away.

"I met someone," I said into the darkness. It was easier somehow, not seeing your face. "Two months ago. At that conference in Chicago."

The water stopped running. A flash of lightning showed you standing very still, back to me, hands dripping into the sink.

"Oh," you said. Another flash. Your face in the window's reflection, eyes closed. "I thought—it was just me. I thought I was the only one who—"

"What?"

"Drifting." You turned finally. "I met someone too. A month ago. My trainer at the gym."

We stared at each other through three more lightning strikes. The air between us felt charged, electric, the way it had when we first met—except then, the current had been possibility. Now it was just the aftermath of something burned through.

"What do we do?" I asked.

You walked to the refrigerator, pulled it open. The interior light cast you in an orange glow as you reached for another bottle of wine. Your hair was messy now, wild from running your hands through it.

"We finish this bottle," you said, "and we figure out who gets the cat."

I nodded. Lightning struck closer, shaking the windows. The storm would pass. Everything does. Eventually, there's just what comes after.