The Storm We Earned

The vitamin bottle sat on the marble counter like an accusation. Mark's new regimen—D3, omega-3, something for joint health he'd mentioned once in passing. I picked it up, reading the label I'd seen a hundred times, but something caught my eye: two missing doses. Yesterday. The day he'd claimed to be at the office until midnight.

Outside, lightning fractured the sky over the resort's infinity pool, illuminating the water in brief, violent flashes. The other guests had scattered at the first rumble of thunder, but I'd stayed, floating on my back, staring up at the darkening clouds, thinking about how strange it was that I could know someone's body and yet not know them at all.

I'd found the hair—long, dark, definitely not mine—caught in the seal of his suitcase this morning. He'd been showering when I noticed it, a single strand against the black nylon, like evidence left by careless design. I'd almost laughed at the cliché. But then I'd remembered those two missing vitamins, the pills he took religiously every morning with breakfast, except for yesterday.

The thunder came closer now, and the pool's surface turned choppy. I watched a single leaf skitter across the water, caught in the wind, and thought about how we collect signs and then refuse to read them. How we trade in small denials for the comfort of not having to face the big ones.

Behind me, the sliding door opened. Mark stepped onto the patio, two glasses of wine in his hands, his silhouette briefly lit by another flash of lightning.

"Storm's coming in," he said, setting the wine on the table. "You should come inside."

I turned to face him, the water dripping from my skin, and wondered which of us would speak first about the hair, the pills, the nights he'd been elsewhere. The wind picked up, and somewhere beyond the pool, the first real rain began to fall, washing everything clean or just washing it away—I couldn't tell which anymore.