The Last Lightning Strike

The storm outside matched the silence between them. Mara sat on the edge of the bed, her iphone clutched in her hand like a weapon she wasn't sure she wanted to use. Three missed calls from him. Two texts she couldn't bring herself to read.

"You're doing it again," David said from the doorway. His dog, Buster—stupid, loyal, Buster—wagged his tail at David's feet, oblivious to the way their marriage was unraveling.

"Doing what?" Mara didn't turn around.

"Checking out. That thousand-yard stare. Like you're already gone."

Lightning fractured the room, throwing David's silhouette against the wall. He looked like a stranger. How many years had it been? Seven? Eight? The cat, Luna, wound herself around Mara's ankles, purring violently, as if sensing the tremor in her hands.

"I found the baseball tickets," she said quietly. "The ones from last summer. When you said you were working late."

David's breath hitched. It was the first genuine emotion he'd shown in months.

"Mara—"

"Don't. Just don't."

She stood up, her phone screen lighting up with another notification. Another lie, probably. Another layer of this carefully constructed life they'd built together, this facade of suburban perfection that had been rotting from the inside out.

"Do you remember," she asked, "when we used to talk about forever? When it felt like lightning every time we touched?"

"We can fix this."

"No." She looked at him then, really looked at him. "We can't. Some things break too badly to put back together."

The cat meowed. The dog whined. Somewhere in the distance, thunder rolled like the closing of a heavy door.

"I'm staying with Sarah tonight," she said, grabbing her already-packed bag from the closet. She'd known this was coming. Had been waiting for the courage.

"Mara, please."

But she was already walking past him, past the dog who still believed in second chances, out the door into the rain, where lightning cracked the sky open, and something about the way it illuminated the world felt like beginning more than ending.