What Weather Brings

The lightning flashed again, illuminating the bedroom in stroboscopic bursts. Marcus sat on the edge of the bed, his hat resting on the nightstand—a felt fedora he'd worn to their wedding, now gathering dust in the corner of their life. Outside, the storm battered against the windows like an unwanted guest demanding entry.

"You're still going?" Elena asked, though she already knew the answer. She traced patterns on the sheets they'd shared for seven years, the cotton cool against her fingertips.

"The pool needs cleaning before the party tomorrow. Your sister's coming, remember?" Marcus stood up, reaching for his hat but not putting it on. Just holding it, like he used to hold her hand when they walked through Boston in winter.

Elena laughed, a sound that tasted like ash and whiskey. "Right. The party. Because that's what matters."

"You know what I mean."

"Do I?" She sat up, the sheet falling away. "Marcus, we haven't made love in three months. We haven't talked about anything real since—God, since before Christmas. And now you're going outside in a thunderstorm to clean a swimming pool we only bought to prove we were happy."

He paused at the door. "Someone has to bear the weight of keeping things running."

"Bear." The word hung between them. "That's what you think you're doing? Bearing the weight? Or drowning in it?"

The thunder cracked, closer now. Marcus finally put on his hat, tilting the brim down like he was preparing for rain rather than a confrontation. "What do you want me to say, El? That I'm miserable? That I wake up every morning wondering how we got here? That I'd rather be anywhere but this house in the suburbs with a pool nobody uses?"

"Yes," she whispered. "I want you to say that. I want you to say anything real."

He looked at her for a long moment, really looked at her, like he was seeing her for the first time in years. Then he opened the door, stepped into the hallway, and disappeared into the dark.

Elena lay back down and watched the lightning through the window, counting the seconds between flash and thunder, measuring the distance of her own unraveling. The storm would pass eventually. They always did. But some floods, she was learning, left scars that never truly healed.