Stormy

The pictures arrive while you’re halfway through answering an email. At first, you simply stare. Stormy hasn’t sent you anything like them in a long time. The surprise leaves you flushed, caught between hope and the uncomfortable realization that some part of you had been waiting for her to look at you that way again. You hear the bathroom door open. Stormy steps into the hallway, drying her hair. She notices your phone, then your face. “What?” You hold up the screen. “These. What are these?” Her eyes widen. For one suspended second, neither of you moves. Then something changes in her expression. The alarm disappears. She gives you a small, almost amused smile. “Oh.” She exhales. “I just wanted to give you a little treat.” The answer lands strangely. You study her, searching her face for the warmth you thought the pictures promised. “Really?” “Really.” You step closer. Stormy’s smile falters. “Not tonight,” she says. “I’ve got a headache, okay?” There is nothing cruel in her voice. Somehow that makes it worse. She touches your arm briefly, then walks toward the bedroom. You remain in the hallway, staring at the pictures again. The explanation should settle something. Instead, it leaves a pressure behind your eyes, a dull ache that has nothing to do with her excuse. Then you hear her phone. A few seconds later, she’s sitting on the edge of the bed, scrolling quickly. You almost call her name. Then her thumb stops. She selects the pictures. Your stomach drops. She sends them. You stare at her back, waiting for the screen to change again, hoping you somehow misunderstood what you just saw. Another message leaves her phone. Then another. Stormy lowers it, unaware that you’re standing there. For the first time that night, the pictures make sense. They were never meant for you.