The Last Dry Season

The water in her glass trembled with each rumble of thunder. Sarah watched the ripples distort her reflection—thirty-eight years old and still unable to look herself in the eye after a drink.

"Another round?" asked the man beside her. His name was Paul. He was charming in that dangerous way that screamed trouble, like lightning before the storm.

"I should go," she said, though she didn't move.

They were at O'Malley's, drowning themselves on a Tuesday because the markets had crashed that morning. The bull run that had made them both wealthy enough to hate each other was finally dead.

Outside, rain lashed against the windows. The weather matched the knots in her stomach.

"You know what my father used to say about bulls?" Paul swirled his whiskey. "They charge until they can't. Then they fall down and don't get up."

"He wasn't talking about markets," Sarah said.

"He was talking about me." Paul laughed, but his eyes stayed flat. "He died broke. I'm worth twelve million on paper and feel exactly as empty as he did."

The admission hung between them, heavier than the storm outside.

Sarah finally looked at him—really looked. For the first time in three years of marriage, she saw the exhaustion underneath the arrogance.

"The water's still running if you want to wash it off," she said quietly.

"What?"

"The makeup. The performance. Whatever you call it."

Paul set down his glass. For a moment, the facade cracked.

"I don't know who's underneath anymore," he said.

Sarah reached across the table and took his hand. The contact was electric—lightning in a bottle after years of drought.

"Then we find out," she said. "Together."

They walked out into the rain, letting the water wash them both clean.