Damage

         We were in the middle of another fight when we heard it: the sound of a rushing wind, a phantom train bearing down on our street, rain hitting our roof like dry rice against a pan. Somewhere a tree snapped in two. It sounded like a gunshot. On instinct, I ran to the window to see what was happening, peeling back the blue gingham curtain to check out the action. Mitchell stayed on the couch, one arm still outstretched from when he was trying to make some kind of point.

         “It’s just a storm, P.,” he muttered, his hand finding its way back to the thigh of his jeans where it rested like an afterthought. I let the curtain fall and wandered vaguely over to our basement door. It was always just something. Just this, just that – Mitchell never understood the enormity of things until they were over. I guessed that was exactly what we had been arguing about before the sound of branches slapping against our siding broke up the fight. Branches, the principal on the playground.

         “Just a storm doesn’t shatter tree trunks.” I set my hand gently on the doorknob, letting my mind drift back over the argument, surveying it like a hunter on safari. I had started it, that much was for sure. No use pointing fingers. But if you saw your husband leaning into the window of the taxi he had just helped his intern into, what would you think? And don’t get me wrong, I liked the girl – she had a good head on her shoulders, and she was eager as anything. But Mitchell had been working late every day the past week, and something told me her paycheck was seeing overtime, too.

         A low whistle weaved its way down Lilac, a foreboding sound that told us another gust was coming. I gripped the doorknob as if it would tether me to the ground. The grandfather clock struck ten. Hard to believe we had been at it since dinnertime.

         “Look, can we just talk about this like two civilized human beings, huh?” Mitchell sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose, right below the spot that his glasses always rubbed raw.

         “I thought we were talk –“

         For a second I could have sworn Mitchell had just dropped a wine glass, which was ridiculous, because he had quit drinking a year before. Only when I felt the strong hand of the wind ripping my hair away from my cheeks did I realize that our picture window had just blown in. The shattered glass glistened on our love seat.

         In a flash, Mitchell had wrapped his arm around my waist and managed to get both of us through the basement door and down the flight of rickety, dusty stairs.

         At the bottom, we threw ourselves haphazardly into the cubby beneath the steps. I couldn’t remember the last time we had been so close. Our shoulders touched. He smelled like Old Spice.

         It was quiet in the basement, the noise of the storm a mere soundtrack to the more prevalent sounds of the dehumidifier and our cat, Samson, mewing for a late-night snack. I scooped the gray tabby up in my arms and held him close, petting him to bribe him out of escaping. Next to me, Mitchell checked his watch.

         “It’s right on top of us,” he said softly, as if talking at a normal volume would alert the storm as to our whereabouts, “the thunder came right with the lightning.”

         “Great,” I mumbled, finding the spot behind Samson’s ear that drove him mad with ecstasy. He purred, adding harmony to the faint sounds of the sonic shock waves above us. It felt like hours before Mitchell spoke again.

         “She’s a pretty girl,” he started, then hesitated, adjusting his glasses.

         “And that’s supposed to make me feel better?”

         “You didn’t let me finish.” Mitchell reached out and petted Samson’s head, as if that simple action would lessen the blow. “She’s a pretty girl, anyone could get carried away.” He dared a quick glance at me, looked back at the cat. A flash of lightning illuminated the skeletons of the washer and dryer. “I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t . . . thought about it.”

         I shook my head, my jaw clenching, pulling the skin taught. I willed my eyes to stay dry. If this was an apology, it was a damn horrible one.

         “But I swear, Penny, nothing happened. Nothing ever happened.”

         I shook my head again, attempting to clear the image of Mitchell’s eyes on the girl’s body at work, examining her shape under the business casual attire she was required to wear. “This doesn’t make things okay,” I whispered, letting Samson hop out of my arms and explore his food dish in the corner. I stared after him, not seeing his form against the concrete floor.

         “I didn’t expect it to,” Mitchell muttered finally. His hand gently tucked a strand of my hair behind my ear. “But if we can’t be honest with each other, what are we doing here?”

         Upstairs, the clock struck ten thirty. The sound of rain slowly dwindled to a steady rhythm of drops against the leaves.

         “Waiting out a storm,” I replied.

         Upstairs, the living room was in order other than the broken window. Mitchell set to work gathering the glass. I opened our front door and stood under the yellow glow of our porch light, gazing up and down the street.

         Everywhere I looked, I saw rubble. The street that I had taken to the grocery store that morning was a mess of twisted branches and caved-in roofs. Several of our neighbors emerged from their cellars, their eyes glazed with trauma and their hands reaching for what was left of their homes.

         I felt Mitchell’s fingers intertwining with mine as I studied the oak in our front yard, its unscathed branches dancing in the breeze. I squeezed his hand. We would rebuild tomorrow.



-1000 words-