The Weatherman's Warning

The orange glow of sunset bled through the miniblinds, casting everything in the apartment in a sickly hue—the color of something decaying. Sarah sat on the edge of the bed, watching her husband pack.

"You're taking the cable box?" she asked, her voice flat.

James paused, cardboard box in hand. "I paid for the premium package. The sports package. It's only fair."

Fair. The word hung between them like smoke. Nothing about this had been fair.

Outside, the sky had turned that bruised purple that comes before a storm. The weatherman had warned them—lightning in the forecast, possible hail, dangerous conditions. But the weatherman was always warning them now. Climate change, they said. Everything was getting more extreme.

"Remember when we used to watch the lightning from the porch?" Sarah said suddenly. She hadn't meant to speak. The memory had just surfaced, unbidden. "First year we moved in. We drank cheap wine and counted the seconds between flash and thunder. Made bets on how far away the storm was."

James's shoulders stiffened. He didn't turn around. "That was six years ago, Sarah."

"Six years and four months."

He set the box down with a heavy thud. The cable trailing from it snaked across the floor like a black vein. "Why are you doing this? Why now?"

She picked at the fraying hem of the bedsheets they'd bought together at that discount store off the highway. The ones that had seemed like such a bargain, until they started pilling after three washes. "I heard lightning strikes the same place twice," she said quietly. "If the conditions are right. If the path of least resistance doesn't change."

James finally turned to face her. His expression was unreadable in the fading orange light. "What are you saying?"

"I'm saying I can't be your lightning rod anymore."

Silence stretched between them, thick and suffocating. The first distant rumble of thunder vibrated through the floorboards.

"The cable," he said finally. "You can keep it. I'll call tomorrow and switch everything to my name. The internet too."

She nodded, unable to speak around the lump in her throat.

As he lifted the box again, the room went white. A flash so bright it seared the backs of her eyelids. Then thunder, close enough to rattle the windows.

"Path of least resistance," she whispered to the empty room as the door clicked shut.

Outside, the sky tore open. The storm had arrived.