What the Storm Takes

The lightning cracked just as Richard slammed the door, taking the cat but leaving the dog—a small mercy, considering Buster had been mine first. I sat on the kitchen floor with my back against the refrigerator, listening to the rain hammer against the windows like it wanted in, wanted to wash away the last three years of compromise and quiet resentment.

Tomorrow I'd face Werner—the bull of vice president who'd been sexually harassing me since the merger, whose "casual" shoulder touches lingered too long, whose emails at 2 AM asked if I was satisfied with my role. I'd finally drafted the email to HR, CC'd the legal team, but my finger hovered over send. Richard called me dramatic. Called me a liability. Said I should've laughed it off, the way he did when clients made jokes about my tits during dinner presentations.

Buster rested his heavy head on my knee, his golden eyes watching me with that unbearable canine sincerity. He knew. They always know.

The storm intensified—another flash of lightning illuminated the empty space where Richard's bass guitar used to hang. The cat, Luna, was probably curled on Richard's leather couch right now, purring for a man who'd kicked her twice when he'd had too much whiskey. But Luna had always chosen whoever held the treat. That was cats.

I found myself laughing, a hollow sound that bounced off the tile floors. The absurdity of it: Richard left because I'd become "too intense," too unwilling to shrink myself to fit his narrative. Werner would probably fire me tomorrow, spin it as performance issues. I'd lose the condo. The dog and I would move into my mother's guest room, at forty-two.

But something loosened in my chest. The lightning flashed again, and this time I saw it clearly: the way forward. I pressed send on the email. Then another—my resignation. Then a third to my sister, asking if her spare room was still available.

Buster lifted his head and let out a soft boof, like he approved.

"That's right," I whispered, scratching behind his ears. "Fuck this."

The storm would pass. The bull would have no one to torment. And Richard—Richard would learn that some women, once pushed far enough, don't break. They just start breaking things.