Power Storm
by Susan Pogorzelski

She broke the cookie in half and pulled out the tiny slip of paper.

“’Love lights up the world,’” she muttered, then rolled her eyes, crumpled it in a ball, and tossed it onto the coffee table. She leaned back against the couch and popped half the cookie into her mouth, chewing slowly.

A pint of the house rice and Chinese vegetables sat in front of her, chopsticks still in their red paper wrapper. Her fridge was stocked with leftover take-out from the week before, along with a quart of milk that she assumed was ready to turn. Her cupboards were bare except for a box of spaghetti noodles and a stockpile of spices that had never been touched. Tomorrow, she’ll throw all of those leftovers into a black trash bag and haul the boxes adorned with Chinese lettering, the half-eaten pizzas, the soda cups, down four flights of stairs to the dumpster.

A waste. It was all such a waste.

She leaned forward and scooped up a helping of vegetables with the plastic fork, took a bite, then picked up the tiny piece of paper again, straightening the creases between her fingers.

Outside, the rain pounded against the windowpane, distorting the view. Inside, the old TV crackled and buzzed, and she picked up the remote and turned the volume up, a melodic chorus of voices interspersed with a ringing bell and bright, colorful movement distracting her from the weather. Musicals seemed safer tonight, fooling her into believing in fairytales and happily-ever-afters.

Thunder cracked against the sky and a burst of lightning illuminated the room. A moment later, the lightbulb over the stove flickered, the TV plunged into silence, and the space heater beside her hummed, then dimmed.

“Shit.”

She stood and crossed the room to the window, peering at the apartment building next door. All was dark there, too, but further down the block, lights still glowed along the sidewalks.

She hated this city.

Cursing, she grabbed her jacket and scarf and locked her apartment behind her. On the street, taxi cabs paused at flashing yellow lights, honking in time with the windshield wipers. She rounded the corner on the next block, ducking inside a phone booth to avoid the steady rain that was already forming mass puddles at her feet. She fished in her pocket for change and tested the phone for a dial tone.

“It’s me,” she said as soon as the other line picked up. “No, I’m fine. It’s the rain, you can’t hear a damned thing. Listen, the storm knocked out my power.”

She could barely hear his response, wasn’t sure if there was an invitation among the thunder.

“So, I’m coming over. I’m leaving now.” She hung up, wrapped her scarf around her head for shelter, and stepped into the cold.

His apartment had a doorman who greeted her warmly and asked her how she’d been. She didn’t stop to ask how his wife was or congratulate his daughter on her first born. Instead she forced a rigid smile and hurried to the elevators, savoring the warmth, the shelter, the light. Her shoes stepped silently along the carpeted hallway, though they left trails of water droplets as she approached his door.

“You’re crazy.”

“Nice to see you, too.”

“What are you thinking, coming out here in this?”

She edged past him and unwrapped the scarf from her head, running her fingers through damp hair, easing the tangles. “I was thinking that you have a warm apartment with all the lights on.”

“I can’t guarantee they’ll stay on,” he crossed over to the window just as lightning intersected the sky.

“Last time my power went out, it didn’t come on until the next morning. I wasn’t willing to take that chance.”

“I seem to remember keeping warm all night.”

She glared at his smirk. “I’m not willing to take that chance, either.”

He shook his head and pointed to the bedroom. “Help yourself. I’ll put on some coffee.”

“No sugar?”

He nodded, a trace of a familiar smile appearing at the corner of his mouth.

“No sugar.”

Everything as she remembered. Everything the same. Socks were in the bottom drawer, sweatpants folded in the second. She stripped out of her damp clothes, savoring the feel of dry cotton against her bare skin, and wrung her hair out in the bathtub.

When she walked back into the living room, he handed her a mug — a black one with light blue polka dots and a small chip on the bottom rim. She loved this mug; she had claimed it the first time she ever came here, felt it was hers, though it belonged to him.

“I should’ve taken this with me,” she mused as she inhaled the strong scent, folding her hands around the mug and letting the steam warm her face.

“You didn’t want anything.”

“No. I didn’t.”

“You wanted to be left alone.”

“Still do.”

“Why?”

She puckered her lips and blew gently on the dark liquid, watching the ripples expand, then fade away.

“Because.”

“That’s a shit answer.”

She jerked her head up at this. His hands were placed flat against the kitchen counter, his shoulders drawn defiantly. He was wearing a t-shirt of his favorite baseball team – his hometown team – and he had that five o’clock shadow that she often teased him about but secretly loved.

It was all the same.

“I didn’t come here for closure.”

“Sure you did.”

Everything was the same, including that self-assuredness, that honesty that both frightened and attracted her.

“My power went out…” she heard her voice rise, an octave higher than she would like him to notice.

“And I’m the only one you know in the city?”

“I don’t want to fight.”

He laughed, a forced chuckle. “I don’t either.”

“So then stop pissing me off.” She crossed the room, tucked her legs beneath her, and fell into cushions of the couch. “My life was perfect before.”

“Your life was shit before.”

“True.” Her eyes roamed over his movie collection, drinking in the titles. The Music Man. Singing In the Rain. Bye Bye Birdie. She had almost forgotten this about him, forgotten how this had surprised her. He always seemed to surprise her.

He ran a hand over his face and shifted so that his shoulder was leaning against the television cabinet, arms folded across his chest as he watched her.

“So you did.”

“Did what?”

He was talking like she had answered a question, and all she could do was listen as he responded. “Before you met me…You didn’t want to care about someone. But you did.”

“You didn’t give me much choice.”

“You could’ve walked away then.”

“I didn’t want to.”

“But you could’ve.” He paused, glanced out the window, then back to her. “You could’ve.”

She looked away, following his gaze towards the window where rainwater zigzaged patterns down the glass, blurring the world so that it felt very small, very secluded. Very much him and her.

She heard him shift, felt his movement as a chill down her arm as he sat on the opposite couch, leaning towards her, forearms resting against his knees. There was a question in his eyes, not verbalized but hanging on the air between them, and she imagined she could see it, could reach for it and grasp it in her hand.

She sighed. “It would have ended sooner or later.”

“So why not later?”

“It happened so fast.”

“So you got scared.”

A short nod. He hung his head between his arms for a moment, then lifted his eyes to meet her gaze, the lamplight reflecting pools of blue and holding hers the way they used to so that she couldn’t look away, not even if she wanted to. She caught her breath, waited.

“You have to grow up sometime.”

“Fuck you.”

He raised his eyebrows in surprise or amusement, she never really could tell which with that half-smile.

“We did that, remember? We were pretty good at that, too.”

She rolled her eyes, could feel her blood warm in frustration. “You were just as much the coward as I was.”

“Don’t.” The smile faded and he stood up, grabbing the mug from her hands. “Don’t pin this on me. Just because it makes it easier for you, don’t pin it on me.”

“You think it was easy?” Her voice followed him into the kitchen, and she watched as he flipped the mug over to drain the liquid, then paused and set it down carefully on the counter. He didn’t say a word, waited for her to continue without looking at her. “I got scared, yes, but you didn’t stop me, didn’t call me. You were the one that decided you didn’t want me anymore. So what exactly was I supposed to do with that?”

“I did want you!” His raised voice matched her own, and she knew that he was feeling the same frustration, could feel the air charge between them, like the storm outside those walls. “I did, but you walked away from it because you were too shit-scared to admit there was something there. That was your choice. So don’t pin it on me. As far as I’m concerned, there are two people here to blame.”

A clap of thunder; the lights flickered but refused to go out. He took a sip from his own full mug, swallowed slowly. She turned her attention away from him, picked at a loose thread on the cuff of her – his – sweatpants.

“What are you really doing here?” His voice sounded tired as he walked closer to her. She kept her eyes down, not wanting to get caught in that trap, pausing to formulate a response and hesitating between honesty and lie.

“I needed–”

“What.”

“I need-”

“What?”

“Will you shut up already? You. Happy? God.”

He sat back down across from her and remained silent. She could never tell what he was thinking, never could predict what he was going to say. A thousand possible responses could flash through her mind in an instant, but she knew that each one of those would be wrong.

She suddenly wished she could take it all back, suddenly wished she had called anyone but him. She wished that she knew enough by now not to give into impulse, wished that she hadn’t started this all over again in the first place.

If only because she knew exactly how it was going to end.

It was how it always ended.

Whether they wound up entangled in the bed sheets or she walked home now, alone, in the rain, this night would only end in goodbye.

And she wasn’t ready for it.

She never was.

“Say something.” She hated herself for this plea, but couldn’t bear his silence.

“What do you want me to say?”

“Anything. Something.”

He shook his head. “I can’t.”

And that was it. She knew which path this goodbye would take. She stood and pulled on her shoes; he watched her as she moved towards the doorway, gathering her things, then hurried to meet her there. For a second, she turned around, imagining what this moment should mean, knowing what wouldn’t ever come.

Wordlessly, she reached into her coat pocket and pulled out a tiny slip of paper. She glanced at it, then held it out. He looked down as it passed between their hands.

“It was getting cold in my apartment,” she said, and though she tried to make her voice devoid of any emotion, she felt the disappointment slipping through. “Thanks for letting me stop by.”

She left his doorway, wandered back into the elevator, and watched the numbers descend. The doorman nodded to her but didn’t say a word as she crossed through the lobby. At the double-glass doors, she waited a moment more, drinking in the light, then she stepped back out into the dark, rain-teared streets, without knowing where one ended and she began.