The Weather Inside

The lightning strike was closer than usual — a white crack that illuminated everything in the kitchen for a split second, including David's face as he stared at the skillet. The spinach was wilting too quickly. He'd added it too early.

"You're impatient," Martha said, leaning against the counter. She'd been nursing the same glass of wine for an hour.

"I'm hungry." David didn't turn around. Their dog, Buster, had retreated to the bedroom hours ago, sensing the weather — both kinds.

Martha had come home late again. No explanation, just the quiet click of the door at 9 PM, her coat smelling like someone else's cologne. Not expensive cologne. Something synthetic, citrus-based. A coworker, then. Someone from the office.

"I ran into Jason," she said now, as if reading his mind. "He asked about you."

Jason. The new senior analyst. Twenty-seven, with teeth too white for a human mouth. David had met him once at the holiday party, watching him laugh too loudly at Martha's jokes, his hand lingering on her shoulder when he excused himself to the bathroom.

"What did you tell him?" David dumped the spinach onto plates. It was overcooked now, dark and limp, exactly like their marriage had become.

"That we're happy." Martha's voice was flat. "That we're friends."

The word hung there — friends. After twelve years, a mortgage, a dog that shed on everything they owned, they'd been reduced to this. Not lovers. Not enemies. Just people who shared a bed and a tax return.

Another flash of lightning. The power flickered.

"Are we?" David asked. "Friends?"

Martha set down her glass. "What do you want me to say, David?"

"I want you to tell me why you smell like Citrus Blast body wash."

The silence that followed was heavier than the storm outside. Buster whined in the bedroom. Martha looked at her hands, then at him, and for a moment, David thought she would cry. Instead, she picked up her fork and took a bite of the spinach.

"It's burnt," she said.

"I know."

"I don't want to eat burnt food anymore."

"Then don't."

She didn't. She walked to the bedroom, packed a bag while lightning lit up the hallway. She didn't say goodbye. She didn't take Buster. David stood alone in the kitchen, listening to the rain, eating the charred remains of their dinner alone.