What the Lightning Revealed

The chemotherapy had taken his hair first—those dark curls that used to catch sunlight through our bedroom window. Now, three months in, Marcus's scalp gleams under the harsh kitchen fluorescence as he sorts his morning pills. Vitamin D, iron, something for nausea that makes him dizzy instead.

I watch him from the doorway, my own reflection ghosting in the hallway mirror. My hair, still thick at forty-two, feels like a betrayal. Like theft.

"You're staring," Marcus says, not looking up. His voice is thinner now, like worn fabric.

"I'm not."

"You are." He finally meets my eyes, and something flashes between us—electric and dangerous, like lightning caught in a jar. We've been having that same argument for fifteen years, since before we were married, before the diagnosis, before everything became measured in treatment cycles and survival percentages.

He holds out his hand, palm up. I take it automatically, muscle memory from two decades of touch. His skin is dry, the lifeline etched deep.

"The oranges came from your sister," he says. "From that farm stand she likes."

On the counter sits a paper bag bursting with them—impossibly bright, like someone captured December sunshine and forced it into fruit. My sister's kindness has always felt like performance. Maybe that's why Marcus likes her oranges. They taste like absolution.

"She's worried about you," I say. Meaning: she's worried about what happens if you die. She's worried about me being alone.

"I'm not dead yet." He pulls his hand back to pick up an orange, weighing it like he's measuring its worth. "The storm's supposed to be bad tonight."

It is. By midnight, rain hammers the roof, and when lightning cleaves the sky, the whole house shudders. We sit in bed watching the flashes illuminate our bedroom—our wedding photo, the pile of medical bills, the empty space where Marcus's reading glasses should be.

Another flash, and suddenly I see it: the way his thin shoulders hunch against the pillows. The stubborn jut of his jaw. The way he peels the orange he brought to bed, segment by segment, juice running over his fingers, staining the sheets.

He holds out a piece. "Eat."

"I'm not hungry."

"Eat anyway. Vitamin C or something."

I take it, and our fingers brush—his cold, mine warm. The lightning comes again, closer this time, thunder rattling the windows, and for a moment everything is white and electric and absolutely clear.

He's still here. The vitamins, the hair loss, the terrified phone calls from my sister—that's all noise. What matters is his palm against my cheek, sticky with orange juice. What matters is that he's still peeling fruit for me in the middle of a storm.

"You're staring again," he whispers.

"Yeah," I say. "Yeah, I am."