The Storm Between Us
The cable went out at 8:47 PM, taking with it the last pretense that we were fine. Marcus stood by the window, palm pressed against the glass, watching the storm that had stranded us in this beach house for the weekend. The rain slashed sideways like it had something personal against the world.
"Should we swim?" I asked, trying to sound like the woman who'd booked this trip to save us.
He turned, and for a second, the lightning outside caught his face—exhausted, aged, not unkind but not tender either. "In that?"
"Pool's covered."
"Maybe later."
Later never came. We'd been saying "maybe later" for three years.
I found myself in the bathroom, my hair falling out in the brush. More strands than usual. Stress, the internet said, or iron deficiency. Or a marriage that had become a series of postponed conversations. I stared at my reflection until another flash of lightning turned me into a ghost.
When I came out, Marcus was sitting on the edge of the bed, phone in hand, though there was no signal.
"You're still checking," I said.
"Habit."
"Like love."
His head snapped up. "That's cruel."
"Is it?" I sat beside him, not touching him. "I think it's just true. We're going through the motions because we're good people who don't want to hurt each other. But we're already hurt, Marcus. The hurting happened while we were busy postponing it."
The storm howled. The palm trees outside bent like they might break. Something inside me felt like breaking too.
"So what now?" he asked, and there was something in his voice I hadn't heard in years—fear.
"Now we stop swimming in circles. Now we have the conversation we've been avoiding since the day we stopped being able to reach each other in the dark."
The power flickered. Died. We sat in absolute darkness, and then the lightning came again, illuminating everything—the space between us on the bedspread, the wedding photo on the dresser, the tears on his face.
"I'm tired," he whispered. "Aren't you tired?"
"Yes," I said, and reached for his hand. "Yes."