The Last Storm

The spinach had been rotting in the crisper drawer for three weeks. Maya noticed it every time she opened the refrigerator—those wilting, blackening leaves like a marriage left unattended. She should have thrown it out. She should have done a lot of things.

"Cable's out again," Daniel called from the living room. His voice had that flat quality it had developed over the past year—not quite apathy, something closer to exhaustion. "Storm must have knocked out the line."

Maya stood at the kitchen sink, running the water. It was the only sound in the apartment besides the rain drumming against the windows. She watched the water spiral down the drain, thinking about how much of her life had disappeared like this—slowly, then all at once. Her mother had called it "the seven-year itch," but that was too generous. They'd made it to five.

Lightning fractured the sky outside, illuminating the kitchen in a harsh white flash. For a split second, she saw herself in the window—her reflection ghostly and strange, like a stranger inhabiting her body. When had she become this person? When had they become this couple who sat in separate rooms during thunderstorms, pretending not to be lonely together?

She found an orange in the fruit bowl, the last one from a bag Daniel had bought weeks ago. She peeled it slowly, the citrus scent sharp and cutting. It reminded her of their first apartment, how he'd bring her oranges when she was studying for her bar exam. The small gestures that used to mean everything.

"Maya?" Daniel's voice came closer now. "You okay?"

She turned, orange sections in her hand, and found him standing in the kitchen doorway. His hair was messy. He looked tired. He looked like someone she had once loved desperately.

"The spinach is bad," she said. "Like, actually moldy."

"Okay," he said. "I'll throw it out."

"No, I mean—" She stopped. The words she wanted to say were there, pressing against her throat, but they felt too heavy to lift. "I mean, how long have we been eating around it? How long have we both known and just... not dealt with it?"

He stood there for a long moment. Another lightning strike, closer this time. The thunder that followed shook the windows.

"Since January," he said quietly.

She nodded. That's what she had thought. "Okay."

"Okay what?"

"Okay, let's deal with it."

He crossed the kitchen and took the orange from her hand. His fingers brushed against hers, and for the first time in months, she didn't pull away. "I don't want to eat around things anymore," he said.

"Me neither," she said, and believed it.

The storm raged on, but for the first time in a long time, they weren't pretending it wasn't happening.