The Lightning Between Us

Elena sat at the edge of the bathtub with a pair of tweezers, plucking another gray hair from her temple. Forty-two years old and suddenly the mirror had become an enemy. Somewhere downstairs, David was packing his things into cardboard boxes. Their marriage hadn't ended with an explosion—it had unraveled strand by strand, like a sweater catching on a door handle, one thread at a time until there was nothing left but holes.

Outside, the summer storm was worsening. Lightning flashed across the sky, and she counted the seconds until thunder rattled the bathroom window. One thousand one, one thousand two. It was getting closer.

David knocked on the doorframe. "The car's packed."

Elena didn't turn around. "Okay."

"You left your orange mug on the counter. The one from Barcelona."

"Keep it."

"Elena—"

"Just go, David. Please."

He lingered for another moment, his shadow stretching across the tile floor. Then his footsteps descended the stairs, and the front door opened and closed. The silence that followed felt heavy, like the air before a tornado touches down.

She stayed in the bathroom as the storm intensified. Lightning struck nearby, so bright it turned the room white, and she squeezed her eyes shut. In that flash, she saw them as they were ten years ago: dancing in that Barcelona apartment, drunk on cheap wine and possibility, neither of them noticing how the future was already dissolving around them.

The power went out.

Elena sat in the darkness, listening to the rain hammer the roof, and realized she was crying. Not for David, exactly, but for the version of herself she'd sacrificed along the way. She opened her eyes and could barely make out her reflection in the darkened mirror—a ghost among ghosts, aging and alone and somehow, terrifyingly, free.

Another flash of lightning illuminated the room. She looked at the tweezers in her hand, then dropped them into the trash can.

Let it gray. Let it all gray.