The Lightning Season

Maya sat on the balcony of her Chicago apartment, peeling an orange with mechanical precision. The citrus scent hung heavy in the humid August air, a sharp contrast to the sterile glow of her iPhone on the glass table beside her.

Three hours since David's text: "We need to talk."

The phone remained stubbornly silent, its black screen reflecting the gathering storm clouds above. She'd been here before — this suspended state between before and after, when the worst has already happened but hasn't yet been named.

A flash of lightning split the sky, violet and jagged, illuminating the downtown skyline like something X-rayed. She counted. One, two, three — the thunder arrived as a guttural growl, rattling the balcony doors.

Her phone buzzed.

Maya's fingers were sticky with orange juice as she grabbed the iPhone, leaving smudged fingerprints on the glass. Not David. A push notification: "Your subscription to The New York Times will expire soon."

She laughed — a harsh, broken sound. Even in this moment of potential annihilation, the mundane persisted. Billing cycles and expiration dates, carrying on while her marriage dissolved like sugar in water.

She'd noticed the changes weeks ago. David's iPhone always face down now. passwords changed. That Thursday when he'd showered and his phone had lit up with a message from someone named Kat — "same time next week?" — before he'd snatched it up, his face unreadable.

Another flash of lightning. This time closer.

Maya ate the last section of the orange, bitter-sweet on her tongue. She wasn't waiting anymore. The realization came with the sudden clarity of lightning striking: she didn't need him to speak the words. His silence was its own answer.

She stood up as the first fat raindrops began to fall, tapping her iPhone screen once. Not to call him. To book flights for her sister's wedding in Santa Fe.

The storm broke proper then — sheets of rain, chaotic lightning, thunder that shook everything. Maya let the rain soak her blouse, laughing again, but differently this time.

Some endings are electric. They burn and illuminate and leave you standing in the rain, tasting oranges on your tongue, finally, finally awake.