The Last Summer

Margaret stood at the edge of the empty pool, its concrete basin cracked and filling with rainwater. The house was silent except for the hum of the cable box in the living room, blinking its lonely blue light. David had left three days ago, taking his clothes and his half of the lease but leaving behind his orange tabby, now curled on the windowsill watching the storm gather.

She'd forgotten to pay the bill. Another thing slipping through her fingers like water.

A flash of **lightning** split the sky, illuminating the backyard where they'd sat together just weeks ago, David promising forever between sips of cheap wine. She'd believed him then, or wanted to. At thirty-five, she was old enough to know better but young enough to still make the mistake of hoping.

The **cat** meowed, jumping down to weave through her legs, demanding dinner. David had always said he couldn't keep him—apartment rules, he'd claimed, though she suspected it was commitment he couldn't stomach, not the pet. Now she was responsible for another living thing's survival, which seemed frankly irresponsible given her current track record.

She stepped onto the wet concrete, the storm breaking overhead. Rain soaked her silk blouse, ruining it completely. The **cable** from the neighbor's property swayed violently in the wind, sparking where it had frayed against the oak tree. She should call someone. Go inside. Do something responsible.

Instead, she stood in the downpour and let herself feel it all—the grief, the relief, the terrifying freedom of starting over. Again. The **pool** before her was empty and cracked, but somehow that felt right. Some things aren't meant to hold water anymore.

The cat stood in the doorway, judging her. Margaret laughed then, a harsh sound that caught in her throat. Tomorrow she'd call the cable company. Tomorrow she'd figure out what to do with the house. Tonight, she'd just stand in the rain and finally, properly, mourn what she'd lost—and what she'd perhaps never really had.