When the Lights Go Out in Manhattan

After the 111th time Julian gave me the silent treatment, I found two off-Broadway tickets in the pocket of his Burberry trench coat.

He used that tone I knew too well—cold, detached, superior.

"I wanted to surprise you for your birthday. Since you found them... I'll see you Saturday."

That Saturday, I wore the vintage Dior dress he once said made me look like Grace Kelly.

I did my makeup perfectly.

I went to the small theater in the West Village alone.

I waited until the show ended and the lights went out.

The man never showed up.

I unlocked my phone and opened Instagram.

Chloe Summers had just posted a new photo to her story.

“Show got postponed, but thanks for keeping me company in the storm 😘”

If this were the old me, I would have blown up his phone.

I would have been hysterical, drowning in tears and questions.

But this time, I was just tired.

A classic Nor'easter was battering New York, and Manhattan traffic was completely paralyzed.

The theater lowered its heavy security gates.

I didn't have an umbrella, and my Uber app flashed "No cars available."

I had no choice but to walk into the neon-blurred street in my Jimmy Choo heels, limping slightly.

My phone rang. It was Julian.

His voice was dripping with impatience, as if I were the one in the wrong.

"Where the hell are you? Do you know what time it is? A married woman, the mistress of the Vance household, wandering the city at midnight. real classy, Eleanor."

My silence only fueled his anger.

"What, are you mute now?"

"Cherry Lane Theatre," I said, reciting the address calmly.

Hearing the name, Julian seemed to finally remember our date.

The line went quiet for a few seconds before his icy voice returned.

"Send me your location. I'm coming to get you."

I hadn't planned on letting him come.

But right then, a pedestrian rushing to escape the rain slammed into me.

My heel caught in a drainage grate, and I twisted my ankle.

I fell hard into the freezing, dirty slush.

My silk dress was ruined with mud.

My left ankle swelled instantly, throbbing with sharp pain.

I couldn't walk.

I sent the location.

One hour and twenty-three minutes passed.

I curled up under the awning of a deli like an abandoned animal in the blizzard.

Before my phone battery died, I looked at our chat one last time.

Julian hadn't come.

He hadn't even sent a text.

Finally, an elderly taxi driver in a yellow Crown Victoria stopped and took me to a nearby boutique hotel.

After checking in and charging my phone, I clicked on Chloe’s Instagram out of sheer muscle memory.

She had updated again thirty minutes ago.

“Power outage? Not a problem when you have a knight in shining armor 😉”

The photo showed a study lined with Persian rugs and oil paintings.

Her father—a famous banker—and Julian were holding whiskey glasses.

Their silhouettes looked relaxed in the glow of the fireplace.

I blocked Chloe.

Then I deleted her.

I thought for a moment, then gave Julian the same treatment.

In six years of marriage, through every fight and cold war, I had never blocked or deleted Julian.

This was the first time.

I was truly tired.

Like a battery that had been drained dry.