Thunder Over Dinner

Marc stood at the kitchen counter, chopping spinach with ruthless precision. The storm outside matched the pressure building in his chest. Forty-two years old, and he still didn't know how to tell his wife he'd been laid off three weeks ago.

The bedroom door creaked. Nina emerged, her hair wet from the shower, steam rising like ghosts around her shoulders. She'd started dyeing it last month — the first gray strand at her temple had triggered something in her, some quiet panic about mortality that Marc understood but couldn't name.

"Still spinach?" she asked, leaning against the doorframe. "I thought you swore off that stuff after Christmas."

"It's good for you," he said, not turning around. Outside, lightning struck somewhere close, and the kitchen fluorescents flickered. "How was the interview?"

"The same." She moved behind him, wrapped her arms around his waist. Her cheek pressed against his back. "They want someone younger. Someone who'll work weekends."

Marc's knife slipped. A drop of bright green juice welled on his thumb. "I'm sorry,"

"It's okay." She rested her chin on his shoulder. "Remember that baseball game we went to? Junior year?"

"The rain delay?"

"Twelve people squeezed under that tiny awning. You held my hand the whole time." Her laugh was soft, sad. "You were so nervous your palms were sweating. I pretended not to notice."

Another flash of lightning, closer this time. The thunder followed almost instantly, shaking the windows.

"Nina," he started, then stopped. His mouth tasted metallic. "There's something—"

"I know," she said, against his back. "The recruiter called me too. Asked about reference calls from your old boss."

Marc went still. The spinach on the cutting board seemed suddenly absurd, violently green and meaningless.

"You knew?"

"I figured you'd tell me when you were ready." She turned him around gently, reached up to brush a stray hair from his forehead. "You think I don't know when my husband is falling apart?"

"I didn't want to disappoint you."

"You think you could?" She kissed him, salt and tears and something like grace. "Eat your spinach, Marc. We'll figure it out."

The storm broke open, rain hammering the roof like applause.