The Ungrounded Socket

Maya stood on her balcony watching the storm, her wet hair plastered against her neck like dark ribbons of silk. The lightning struck somewhere beyond the skyline, illuminating the glass towers of downtown Dallas in strobe-light flashes.

Inside, her iPhone buzzed again — Mark, undoubtedly, with another carefully worded text about how they needed to talk. About how he couldn't live with someone who'd stopped trying. She'd stopped trying three months ago, when the promotion that was supposed to fix everything had instead become a twenty-four-hour tether to clients who expected responses at 11 PM on Saturdays.

She'd forgotten to take her vitamin D again. The bottle sat on her nightstand, a daily reminder of her body's slow erosion under fluorescent lights. Her doctor said her levels were critically low. She said what's the point of seeing the sun if you're always too tired to go outside.

The cable guy had come earlier that week — some kid named Caleb with cracked knuckles and eyes that kept drifting to the empty spot on her couch where Mark's throwing blanket still lay folded. He'd mentioned her connection was unstable, which seemed like the most generous description anyone had offered her lately.

Another lightning flash. This one closer.

Her phone lit up with a notification. Not Mark. Her mother: Your father died tonight.

Maya stood there as the rain began, watching the water streak the glass like tears she couldn't seem to produce. She thought about the cable guy's assessment — unstable connection — and wondered if that was all any of them were really looking for. Someone to complete the circuit. Someone to weather the storm with, instead of standing alone on balconies waiting for something to strike.

She picked up the vitamin bottle and swallowed two dry. Then she texted Mark back.

You're right, she wrote. Then deleted it.

The lightning struck somewhere very close, and for a moment, everything was bright as noon.