The Weather Channel

Maria stood at the edge of the pool, her toes curling against the wet concrete. Behind her, through the sliding glass doors, Richard was still eating his dinner—wilted spinach salad with grilled salmon, something about cholesterol, something about being responsible. Something about how they needed to cut the cable, save two hundred dollars a month, prepare for the future she wasn't sure she wanted with him anymore.

A flash of lightning split the sky, sudden and violent as the realization that had been building inside her for months. She counted the seconds. One, two, three—thunder rattled the house, vibrated through the soles of her feet.

"The storm's getting closer," Richard called from inside. "Come back in before you get soaked."

Maria didn't move. The pool water rippled in the wind, dark and uncertain as everything between them now. Seven years together, and she couldn't remember the last time he'd asked her what she wanted instead of telling her what they should do.

The television flickered behind him—cable news, something about the economy, always something about the economy. They'd stopped watching shows together years ago. Stopped talking about anything that wasn't bills or maintenance or the next sensible step toward a retirement that felt increasingly like serving a life sentence.

"You've got spinach in your teeth," she said to the water, not turning around.

"What?"

"Never mind." She dug her phone from her pocket, scrolling through messages she shouldn't read at midnight. The cable guy had come yesterday—young, tattooed, had looked at her like she was something more than Richard's wife, something more than an accountant with a 401k and a house with a pool she never swam in. Not that anything would happen. But he'd seen her.

Lightning struck closer. The yard illuminated, harsh and bright, exposing all the places the paint was peeling, all the cracks Richard kept saying he'd fix.

"We're drowning," she said.

Richard appeared in the doorway, wiping his mouth with a paper napkin. "It's just a storm, Maria. It'll pass. Everything will be fine in the morning."

"No." She turned to face him. "We're drowning in this house. In this pool. In this life where the most exciting thing that happens is the cable going out."

He said nothing. The silence between them stretched, taut as a cable about to snap. In the flickering light from the television, she could see him aging—same man she'd fallen for, somehow also a stranger.

Another flash. Lightning struck the transformer down the street. Darkness swallowed the neighborhood completely.

"The power's out," Richard said, his voice small and useless in the dark.

Maria stepped off the edge. The water was cold, shocking her awake. She swam to the other side, emerging dripping, alive, terrified. When she climbed out, she didn't look back at the house.

"I'm leaving," she said, and knew she finally meant it. "Not tonight. But soon."

In the dark, without cable or distractions or the endless noise they'd used to fill the empty spaces between them, Richard finally heard her. Some realizations, she understood, only arrive in the dark.