"Heat Lightning"

A middle-aged writer struggles to maintain his marriage.

“Heat Lightning”

by

Ben Sparks

 

            “If our passion is dead, what’s left of us?”

            I shook my head, begging for the right words to come.

            “The way I see it is this,” she started, “If you have the slightest inclination that sleeping with someone else is even a remote possibility, than you do not truly love me-”

            “I do love you!”

            She gave me a look of disappointment, “Not like you used to. And certainly not as I love you,” she spoke so somberly that I cringed in my chair.

            My hands trembled and I felt a burning sensation in my cheeks. I felt like I was about to make some huge speech in front of thousands of people and I had no idea what I was going to talk about.

            The sound of my own voice shaking in my head drove me further down the road of disaster, “I-I can’t lose you, Beth. You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me. I’m sorry I slept with another woman, but it was beyond my control.”

            Beth’s eyes were so bloodshot from crying and her lips struggled to make words, “Brian what could that possibly mean? How can something like that be beyond your control? HOW CAN ANYTHING YOU DO BE BEYOND YOUR OWN CONTROL?!”

            Her shrill, raised voice hit me straight in the gut and I had to swallow several times to keep from vomiting all over our dining room floor.

            “I-I don’t know… I have a weak will. I have trouble… with speaking up and saying no.”

            “That’s bull and you know it. She wasn’t just some girl you could spend one night with and then never see again. You were involved with her, physically and emotionally.”

            I put my hand to my face, trying hard to avoid eye contact with Beth. She looked so ugly sitting there as she ripped me apart. I could see only a trace of the beauty that once enamored me so greatly in my youth. I just kept pretending to look around the room, like I wasn’t even paying complete attention to our conversation.

            “I don’t know what to tell you… we weren’t sleeping together until recently. We had just been close friends. Men and women can be close friends without romance-

            “Apparently not!” Beth interrupted.

            “Well she admit she had been having thoughts about me recently. And she told me how alone she felt and how happy and blissful she felt around me. I truly… honestly did not have impure thoughts about her until she told me that. Just hearing those words, hearing how much a person can love and care about me. It just activates some trigger in my brain that I can’t control. I get caught up in her adoration of me. Then she makes a move and I can’t stop her. I didn’t want to stop her.” Tears now began slowly streaming down my cheeks, “And I thought how could I love her so much when I love you so much? And then I thought how could I love anything so much as you?” I pleaded to her with my hands.

            There was a silence. The smell of cold chicken permeated the air, along with the already wilting flowers I had bought for Beth.

            The dining room we sat in was hauntingly dark, with only light from the moon weakly pouring through the curtains. The kids were in bed and our willingness to argue was diminishing. Our eyelids felt uncomfortably heavy and our tongues were sore from words we never wanted to speak. Beth went up to the bedroom and I took my spot on the sofa. Mikey, our golden retriever looked up at me as I lay my body down.

            “At least I’ve still got you, right buddy?” I said, petting his soft fur. Mikey got up from his usual sleeping spot and trotted upstairs to sleep in the master bedroom.

           

            Weeks passed since that night but the conversation still lingered in my head. We had been ghosts to each other since then, as Beth thought about what she wanted to do. We barely talked, only saying what we needed to get through the day and have the kids not suspect too much.

            “Daddy are you and Mommy getting a divorce?” Little Sam, only twelve years old, would ask.

            All I could do was smile and say, “Of course not, little man, we’re just going through a bit of a rough patch. Everything will be okay, don’t you worry.”

            If Beth was in the room she would glare at me, trying to make me feel guilty for lying to him. I didn’t think I was lying.

            As the days dragged on I always had a tickle of hope that today would be the day she would decide to forgive me. But to no avail, we would eat dinner and then she would go up to the bedroom and lock the door.

            But I had a plan. I was going to romance Beth like I used to in the days of our honeymoon. That’s how they did it in the movies, or at least bad sit-coms. I’ve talked and bought my way out of other arguments before, this time was no different. She was a modest girl, however. She wouldn’t fall for the gooey stuff other girls like. I had to be creative and funny. I do love to make her laugh.

 

            Today will be the day.

            I came home early from work to set up. My best idea was to decorate our bedroom with relics of our past that held meaning in both our hearts. I brought up our old record player and dusted off The Stranger by Billy Joel. I prepared a tray of cinnamon cookies we had acquired the recipe from while vacationing in Italy. Just for the sake of dramatic effect I bought a bouquet of roses and threw the petals across the bed and on the floor. Corny, I know, but sometimes the old-fashioned tricks can work.

            Finally I unearthed my old acoustic guitar from the attic and attempted to remember the chords to a song I wrote during the first few months of my courtship of Beth. After some agonizing tuning and reworking, I was done.

            It was 3 o’clock and Beth came home every day at 4. With the hour I had to myself I figured I should think about what I was going to say. But nothing came to mind. I’ve never been good at rehearsed speeches, always better at speaking spontaneously.

            So I sat and brooded. I found myself drifting to thoughts of Angela, my mistress. The way she smiled at me whenever we met, how excited she’d be to see me. How she laughed at everything I said, but also could be serious when I needed her to be.

            “God, what am I doing?” I said aloud. “I love Beth, I married Beth. It’s been fifteen years, my parents were married for fifty years and were always faithful. At least I could never imagine them having affairs, they were so loyal. I thought I’d be like them, utterly devoted. Fifteen years doesn’t sound like very long, but I don’t know where the time has gone.”

            There was a door slam and that was the signal that she was home.

            A little early, I thought. I walked downstairs to the kitchen where she was putting down her things. She worked in the public library and so she was dressed somewhat professionally, with khaki pants and a navy blue top, not quite buttoned all the way. Her facial expression still hadn’t changed since our conversation; she just looked worn out.

            When she saw that I was home unusually early she looked angry.

            “What’re you doing here?” she asked with contempt.

            “B-Beth I want to show you something.”

Damn I sounded terribly nervous, “Come upstairs.”

            Sighing loudly she rolled her eyes and followed me upstairs.

            We got to the bedroom and I mustered out, “Surprise…”

            Taking a moment to take in what she saw, processing the confusion, she just said, “What is all this?”

            Then I looked too. The roses were sparse, the cookies had gotten cold and I had forgotten to even turn on the record player.

            “This is my apology, Beth. I’m gonna prove that I still love you,” I said.

            Walking over to the guitar I placed my very shaky hands on the neck. Starting to strum the chords I sang, “Dear Beth, you are the sweetest thing. Dear Beth you know how to make my heart ring. When life gives me troubles I know I can just sing, and your voice comes to me and I feel relief.”

            There was more but she stopped me.

            Taking a deep breath, “Brian this is nice, but don’t you think we’re a little passed this?”

            “I’m trying to show you I still have passion. I am devoted to you,” I said as my nervousness slowly started to fade.

            “This isn’t passion Brian. You’ve forgotten what the word means. There’s no thunder here, it’s just heat lightning.”

            I put down the guitar and stared at the ground.

            “What can I do, Beth? Fifteen years is a long time. My writing career’s gone no where. I’m forty-two with nothing to show for myself.”

            “Is that what this is? A mid-life crisis. Jesus Christ, Brian. Wake the f**k up.”

            I gazed fearfully at my wife.

            “You’re so damned obsessed with yourself and you don’t even know it. You love Angela because she loves you and you loved me because I loved you. Well I’m through. I’ve done some serious thinking, Brian. I’m leaving you.”

            The words echoed in my head. I could think of no response. I couldn’t think at all. I could feel her eyes studying me. Waiting for a reaction.

            “Okay,” I said. She stormed out of the room. I reached for one of the cookies and took a bite. It tasted great.

Author's Note

What do you think of the ending? Is the story interesting?