The Last Supper Before the Storm

You're forty-three and your marriage has the lifespan of a grocery store goldfish—fragile, forgotten in a bowl on the counter, circling the same stagnant water. Derek's been talking about his new supplement regimen for twenty minutes. Something about proprietary blends and bioavailability, as if vitamin deficiency is why you haven't really touched each other in six months.

Outside, lightning fractures the sky, illuminating the dust on the wine glasses you haven't used since your anniversary. Three years ago.

"It's about optimization," Derek says, popping another capsule. "You should try them. You've been... off lately."

You want to scream. You want to tell him you're not off—you're drowning. That the bull of a boss who made your life hell for five years finally retired yesterday, and instead of feeling relief, you felt nothing at all. That the promotion you once killed yourself for now sits on your desk like a participation trophy. That you woke up this morning staring at your palm, tracing the life line that somehow feels shorter than it used to.

"Storm's coming," you say instead, watching the first raindrops streak the window like tears you can't cry anymore.

Derek checks his phone. "Yeah, supposedly severe. Did you pay the electric bill?"

The goldfish surfaces, gulps air, disappears. You feel something crack open inside you—not violent like the lightning, but slow and inevitable.

"Derek," you say. Your voice sounds like someone else's. "I'm not taking the vitamins."

He looks up, confused. "What?"

"And I'm not staying. Not through this storm, not through the next one." You stand up, your chair scraping against the floor, the loudest sound you've made in this house in years. "I think I'd rather be electrocuted than slowly poisoned."

The lights flicker. Outside, thunder rolls closer. For the first time in forever, you're not waiting for something to happen. You're making it happen.