The Storm We Made

Margot ran through the rain, each footfall a declaration she couldn't make with words. Behind her, the empty house where David had finally stopped pretending their marriage could be saved. Three years of working late, of careful silences, of their old dog Luna sleeping between them in bed like a living wedge.

Luna waited on the porch now, David's parents having come to collect her. The custody arrangement for the dog they'd adopted as pups, back when they still believed love was something you couldn't lose through neglect.

Lightning cracked the sky open, and for a second Margot saw everything illuminated—the upcoming divorce, the apartment she'd need to find, the way David had looked at her yesterday like she was a stranger he was tired of disappointing. She kept running, though she was miles from home and soaked through, her expensive running shoes heavy with water.

Her phone buzzed in her armband. David. Probably wanting to know what time Luna's medication was due. He'd forgotten again. He forgot everything now.

Another strike of lightning, closer this time. The air tasted of ozone and impending something—revelation, or destruction, or maybe they were the same thing. Margot stopped running, bent over with her hands on her knees, and finally let herself cry. Not for the marriage, really. For the years she'd spent running in place, waiting for lightning to strike.

She straightened up, wiped her face with a soaked sleeve, and turned back toward the house. Toward packing boxes and awkward conversations and learning to sleep alone without Luna's weight against her legs. The storm was just getting started, and she was done running from it.