The Lightning Between Us

I watch him stare at the goldfish swimming in endless circles, its orange scales catching the afternoon light through the window. "Seven seconds," he murmurs. "That's how long their memory lasts. Lucky fish." His voice trembles, a symptom I've come to recognize. The neurologist calls it executive dysfunction; I call it watching my husband dissolve like sugar in warm water.

"What did you say?" I ask, though I heard him perfectly.

"Nothing important." He turns back to the sphinx puzzle we bought in Egypt sixteen years ago, its weathered stone pieces scattered across the coffee table. We'd solved it together in a hotel room in Cairo, laughing as we argued over which wing belonged where. Now his hands hover uselessly over the pieces, unable to grasp how they fit together. I reach out to help, but he pulls away. "I can do it myself, Elena." The sharpness in his tone surprises us both.

Outside, lightning fractures the sky and thunder rattles the windowpane. The storm has been building all afternoon, mirroring the weather patterns developing in this room. I remember the way we used to argue—passionate, productive, always reaching toward resolution. Now his patience has eroded alongside his cognition, leaving only frustration in its wake.

"I should check the network cable," he says suddenly, standing up. "The internet's been slow." A logical explanation for his difficulty with the puzzle, as if connection speeds could explain his failing mind. I watch him crouch behind the television, his movements precise yet somehow wrong, like a child mimicking adult tasks without understanding their purpose.

The goldfish continues its endless circuit around the bowl. Seven seconds of memory, and then it's new again. Sometimes I wonder what that would feel like—to erase everything every moment, or perhaps to carry everything without the weight of remembering.

I want to help, but he pulls away sharply when I reach out. "I've got this," he insists, his fingers fumbling with the disconnected cable that trails uselessly across the floor. The blue light on the router stays dark, a small technological failure that somehow symbolizes everything happening between us.

Behind him, the sphinx remains unsolved, its riddle now impossible for him to answer. Lightning splits the sky again, illuminating the room with a harsh clarity—the undeniable transformation of the man I love into someone I'm still learning to recognize, seven seconds at a time.