What We Couldn't Say

The wedding reception sprawled around the infinity **pool**, guests in various states of intoxication, laughter fracturing the humidity. Maya stood at the edge, her bare feet inches from the water, while Marcus hovered behind her—close enough to touch, far enough that they weren't really together anymore.

"You've got **spinach** between your teeth," he said, and something about the way he said it—like he'd been waiting, like he'd almost wanted it to be there—made her step away from the pool's edge and turn to face him.

Four years of marriage reduced to this: a woman wiping green debris from her smile while her husband watched with that particular brand of disappointed patience he'd perfected somewhere around month thirty-two.

A **lightning** strike cracked the horizon, the sky bruising purple behind the **palm** trees that fringed the resort property. Someone screamed—playfully—assuming it was part of the evening's entertainment. But Maya felt the electricity in her own bloodstream, the sudden clarity that comes when you finally admit what you've known for months.

"Sarah asked about us," she said quietly. Sarah, the **friend** who'd invited them here, who'd pulled Maya aside during the ceremony with that concerned furrow between her brows. "She wanted to know why we don't look at each other anymore."

Marcus laughed, but it was thin, exhausted. "She's drunk. Everyone's drunk."

"She wasn't. And we don't."

Another flash of lightning illuminated his face, and for a moment she saw it—all the things he wouldn't say, all the ways he'd already left while still sleeping in their bed. The spinach was gone from her teeth. Her smile, when it came, was genuine.

"I'm not coming back with you," she said, and the words felt like surfacing after holding your breath too long. The storm broke overhead, raindrops heavy and warm, and she didn't move toward cover. She let herself get soaked, finally, absolutely there.