The Storm Before

The cat—Morris, because she'd insisted on the name eight years ago when they were still making each other mixed CDs and believing in forevers—curled at the foot of their bed, purring through the silence that had become their third roommate. Outside, lightning fractured the sky again, illuminating the boxes she'd packed that morning while he was at work.

"You're really doing this," he said from the doorway. Not a question. They'd passed questions months ago.

She didn't turn from the window. "The baseball game starts at seven. You should watch it."

"Baseball. Right. Because that solves everything."

The sphinx-like riddle of their marriage: when did wanting different things become wanting nothing at all? They'd met at twenty-three, drunk on possibility. Now at thirty-one, she wanted children and he wanted... what? More time? Less certainty? The specifics didn't matter anymore. The gap had become the thing.

"I remember," she said, finally facing him, "when you proposed. Under that orange tree in your mother's backyard. You told me love was a choice we make every day."

"I still believe that."

"Then choose differently." Her voice cracked. "Please."

Another flash of lightning. The cat stretched, indifferent to human heartbreak, and jumped off the bed.

"I can't," he said. "I won't apologize for knowing who I am."

"And I won't apologize for outgrowing who we were together."

She picked up the last box. He didn't stop her. Some storms, you weather. Others, you let them break you open.

The door clicked shut. The apartment felt suddenly enormous. He turned on the television. Baseball. Ninth inning. His team was down by three. Somewhere in the distance, real thunder shook the sky, but inside, only the cat's scratching at the closed door made a sound at all.