The Lightning Season

Marcus stood by the hotel pool at 2 AM, nursing a whiskey he'd charged to the corporate card. The Regional Sales Retreat brochure had promised 'pyramid-building exercises' and 'team breakthroughs.' Instead, he'd spent three days watching his colleagues compete in bullshit icebreakers while his marriage quietly imploded back in Chicago.

The pool's surface rippled in the wind. He'd come here to smoke, to escape the air-conditioned convention center where tomorrow they'd be pitching that bull about quarterly projections to the VP—a man who managed people like they were baseball cards, collecting and trading based on stats.

Lightning cracked the sky open, illuminating the desert beyond the resort's fake oasis. His phone buzzed. Sarah again. She'd left him three days ago—taken the dog, the good towels, the emotional bandwidth he'd been withholding for years. He'd been so busy climbing the corporate pyramid, makingVP by forty, that he hadn't noticed his wife checking out of their life.

"You're always at the office," she'd said, her voice weirdly calm. "Even when you're here, you're not here."

The lightning flashed again. He remembered their fifth anniversary, naked in a hotel pool in Cancun, drunk on cheap tequila and genuine happiness. They'd talked about the future—kids, a house with a yard, growing old together. Instead, he'd chosen the corner office and the company car.

Marcus dropped his phone in the pool. It sank without a splash, joining his wedding ring at the bottom of the deep end. Lightning struck somewhere distant, the thunder arriving seconds later like God's slow applause.

He finished his drink. The whiskey burned going down, clean and simple. Tomorrow he'd give his presentation. He'd nail the Q&A. He'd make VP. But first, he'd retrieve his phone, call Sarah, and find out if some strikes were still worth swinging at.