What the Storm Washed Clean

Mara stood in the bathroom, the shower still running, water drumming against the tile like rain she couldn't escape. Her hair plastered to her skull, dark tendrils framing a face that looked suddenly unfamiliar in the mirror. Forty-two years old and starting over again. The thought nearly made her laugh.

Lightning cracked the sky outside, the apartment flickering with momentary brightness. In the bedroom, the cat—a calico named June who'd belonged to both of them, once—sat perched on a cardboard box marked HIS STUFF. June had been yowling since David walked out three days ago, a sound so pathetic it made Mara's chest ache.

"I know," she whispered. "I know."

She'd loved him. Or she'd loved the life they'd built together, the Sunday mornings and shared taxes and the way he'd pretzined his legs with hers on the couch. But love wasn't enough anymore. Not when his voice had taken on that certain tone whenever she spoke, like she was a child explaining something he'd already mastered. Not when the sex had become perfunctory, a chore checked off between work emails and laundry.

The water kept running. She'd forgotten to turn it off, but the rhythm soothed something raw inside her. Outside, thunder rattled the windows. June's yowling rose to a crescendo.

Mara met her own eyes in the mirror. She wasn't running. Not really. This was walking forward, even if it felt like fleeing. She'd kept the apartment. She'd kept the cat. She'd kept herself—this new, unfamiliar version with lines around her mouth and something like hope stirring beneath the exhaustion.

She turned off the water. The silence rushed in, sudden and absolute.

June appeared in the doorway, tail flicking. Mara scooped her up, burying her face in soft fur. The cat purred, a vibration that grounded her.

"Just us now," she said. "We're going to be okay."

Outside, the storm broke. The rain came down harder, washing the city clean, and somewhere beneath it all, something began to grow.