The Lightning We Made

The thunder came first, a low rumble that made the water in the pool shiver. Maya sat on the edge, feet dangling in the lukewarm water, nursing the second glass of wine she hadn't wanted to pour. Inside, David was on a conference call, his iphone glowing beside him like a faithful pet, feeding him the illusion of importance.

The goldfish circled its bowl on the patio table, orange fins flickering in the dusk. It was dying—she'd known for days. Another thing neither of them could bear to discuss. Like the promotion she'd turned down. Like the embryo frozen in a clinic three states away. The fish spun lazily, proof that even in a six-inch world, you could still swim in circles until you drowned.

A crack of lightning split the sky. For a heartbeat, everything—pool, trees, the distant skyline—flared into terrible clarity. She saw her own reflection superimposed over the water: thirty-four years old and suddenly aware of every choice that had brought her here, every yes that should have been no.

David's father had loved baseball. The man who'd taught David that the difference between a strike and a ball was patience, that life rewarded those who waited for the right pitch. David hadn't spoken to him in three years—not since the wedding neither of them had wanted. David was still waiting for the perfect pitch. Maya had stopped swinging entirely.

Her phone buzzed on the patio table. The fertility clinic. She silenced it without looking.

"Maya?" David stood at the sliding door, framed in the house's warm light. "You okay out there? It's gonna pour."

Another flash of lightning. This time, she didn't close her eyes. Let it burn.

"I'm fine," she said, and it was almost true. "Just thinking."

Behind her, the goldfish rose to the surface, belly-up. Finally, something that didn't require a decision at all.