What the Storm Takes

The lightning struck just as Julian's key scratched the lock—a violent fork of white that ripped the sky open, illuminating the divorce papers still spread across his dining table where he'd left them that morning. His golden retriever, Barnaby, pressed against his leg, trembling at each thunderclap that followed.

Julian dropped his bag and knelt on the hardwood floor, burying his face in Barnaby's damp fur. The dog smelled of rain and something sweeter—whatever he'd gotten into while Julian was at work. It was the most honest thing Julian had felt all day.

"We're alright, buddy," he whispered, though he wasn't sure who he was trying to convince.

In the kitchen, the goldfish bowl caught another flash of lightning through the window. Caroline had bought that fish—a pathetic orange comet she'd won at a carnival during their third date, back when they were both drunk on cheap beer and the possibility of each other. She'd named him Neptune, laughing as she nearly dropped the plastic bag into her drink. Seven years later, Neptune was still swimming in endless circles, oblivious to the way their marriage had slowly dissolved.

Julian stood and walked to the bowl, watching the fish glide through its artificial kingdom. Caroline had taken everything else—the furniture, the books, the good coffee maker. She'd even left a note saying she couldn't bear to look at Neptune anymore. Too many memories, she'd written. So she'd left him behind, like everything else she didn't know what to do with.

Another lightning strike shattered the darkness. The power flickered and died, leaving only the storm's ambient glow through the windows. Barnaby whined softly.

"I know," Julian said to the dog. "I know."

He pressed his palm against the cold glass of the fishbowl. Somewhere out there, Caroline was sleeping in someone else's bed, maybe someone else's house, while he was here with a neurotic dog and a carnival fish who'd outlasted their marriage.

The fish rose to the surface, mouth opening and closing in silent expectation of food. Julian sprinkled some flakes into the water, watching them drift downward like tiny, settling questions.

"At least one of us still eats," he muttered.

The lightning had passed beyond the horizon now, leaving only rain against the glass—steady, persistent, washing away nothing at all. Julian sank onto the sofa, Barnaby jumping up beside him, and together they waited for morning, or whatever came after.