The Final Inning

Mara stood at the window watching the lightning fork across the Seattle sky, each flash illuminating the boxes stacked in the living room. Seven years of marriage reduced to cardboard and packing tape.

"You're really doing this?" David's voice came from the kitchen where he was disconnecting the cable box from the wall.

"I told you, Dave. I need to figure out who I am without you defining it."

He laughed bitterly. "Right. Because the problem is definitely me, not your midlife crisis at thirty-five."

Mara turned from the window. Her palm still tingled where she'd slapped him two nights ago—that moment when something in their marriage had finally snapped beyond repair. The flash of anger had been as sudden as the storm outside, but unlike the weather, it wasn't going to blow over.

David emerged from the kitchen holding the tangled cable cord. "Remember when we watched the World Series? You actually let yourself enjoy that game."

"Baseball was never my thing. You know that."

"No, you watched because I wanted you to. That's what you do—whatever keeps the peace. Until you don't."

Another flash of lightning, closer this time. The rain started hammering against the glass.

"I'm tired of performing contentment," Mara said softly. "Aren't you?"

David looked at her for a long moment, really looked at her, as if seeing her clearly for the first time in years. The anger drained from his face, leaving something worse: recognition.

"Yeah," he said finally. "I am."

He dropped the cable on the counter.

"Go, then. Figure it out."

Mara walked to the door, her keys jingling in her hand. She paused with her hand on the knob, not looking back. Outside, the world was waiting—scary and undefined and hers.

She opened the door and stepped into the storm.