Lightning Bugs and Lightning

They say you can tell the rainy season is beginning when you start to see the lightning bugs. It’s not very scientific of course, but science isn’t great at weather yet. There are many things science isn't great at yet, you know. Plus, it seems to work. The first time I saw a lightning bug here, for example, it was a Thursday, and it rained every day for four months after that. That was several years ago of course, but it happens like that pretty much every year. It’s raining now too, outside my window; that’s what got me thinking about it.

I remember it was a Thursday because it was the day before Maggie left. She left on a Friday.

It would have been maybe three weeks before that she first brought it up. We were in the living room, sitting together on this dark green couch watching something on television. There’s a commercial break and she says she's packing her bags and going someplace else.

"...in three weeks," she says.

"Why?"

"I need to go someplace else and I'm ready to go. Come with me if you like."

We missed most of the tv show talking about it: where are you going?, why not stay?, and then we hardly said another word on the subject until maybe three weeks later when we're out at a fancy restaurant that Thursday, the day before she left.

We were sitting on the balcony, with candles and a bottle of a wine and a view of the water and all that. Maggie was paying for everything of course because she had a good job and I wasn’t making any money yet. We ate and drank wine and laughed, chatted as ever. We had a good time together. We always had a good time together but I remember that evening was particularly good.

I saw the lightning bug just as she was beginning this sentence: "Jonathan, you know I’m leaving tomorrow?"

"Did you see that lightning bug?" I said.

"No," she said. "Did you hear what I asked you?"

"I'm sorry. I heard you. I saw the lightning bug just at the same - just at the same time. Did you see it?" I asked again like a fool. "I’d hoped you’d changed your mind about leaving," I said finally.

"Well I haven’t."

"We haven’t talked about it."

"Let’s talk about it now," said Maggie. "I’m leaving tomorrow, on the morning train. I’ve bought two tickets, so you can come with me if you like." She reached across the table and took my hand. "Oh damn it," she said, and she turned her eyes away. The first rain of the season came down lightly around us.

"It’s raining," I said.

"I don’t care about the rain Jonathan."

The lightning bug blinked flourescent yellow-green. Light, dark, light, dark. We call them fireflies too, but lightning bug is a better name. They go from dark to light to dark. Fire doesn't burn like that; lightning does. Lightning cuts in bolts into the darkness and vanishes to nothing just as you see it. Light and dark like on and off. Fire doesn't do that; we should use firefly for some other bug.

"Jonathan," she said. "I’m leaving tomorrow. Do you want to come with me?"

This is when I knew I wouldn't go with her, and I knew she wouldn't stay. I can still feel the ache of it when I think of it, a dull pain like a hammer to the chest, and some bit of me dying. I watched the lightning bug blinking, not saying anything, and felt the gentle cool raindrops on my hands and arms, on the back of my neck. She would leave at 0707 am. That's how it's printed on the ticket: 0707 am with no punctuation. I still have my ticket somewhere, stuck between the pages of a book.

Of course I’m all over it now though. I was pretty sad for a while, especially because of all of the rain. For four months I was pretty sad about Maggie, but of course I’m over it now. I was just thinking about it now because it’s raining again outside my window.

"You don't have anything here," she said.

"I have my life here. I have my keys to my house, where I live. I have my parking space. You know I can't go Maggie," I said. "I know all the streets here."

"So learn the streets in Baltimore." She smiled.

"There are so many streets in Baltimore," I said. "I wouldn't know where to begin."

"You'd be alright."

"Maggie, I can't go with you."

She looked at me like she couldn't tell if I was serious, like I couldn't possibly be so stupid. Maggie with narrowed, questioning eyes. How could I possibly be so stupid? She looked at me for a long time, and then a bright smile burst forth on her lips. "You're such an idiot," she said. She laughed with tears in her eyes and looked right at me and said it again: "You're such an idiot." Maggie with dancing green eyes.

I made a joke: "If I'm an idiot, what about all these caterpillars and banana plants?" Something not funny like that. "What about all these horses?" I said. "You ever see a horse who knew the alphabet? None of them ever even make it to H."

"That's a pretty early letter."

"And an important one for a horse."

"Presumably," she said, smiling softly. She was wearing lipstick I remember; I’d never seen her wear lipstick before.

"Right, presumably," I said.

And sure I miss her sometimes. I miss her when it's raining, and when the world goes gray and quiet like it's going to rain. I remember she would laugh sometimes like she was certain the whole thing was funny, like she had no doubt. Her eyes would light up like she'd eavesdropped some deep tiny secret that makes life hilarious, and if I could only hear it too I might get in on the joke. I loved her for that and for a thousand other things, but I didn't quite know I loved her then. Of course I'm all over it now; it's just funny how it all changes is all, how completely different it all becomes. We're not important to each other anymore, Maggie and I, and we were important to each other once, so there's an emptiness where that was. I can still feel the ache of it if I want to.

I waited with her on the platform and we smoked cigarettes. Lightning bugs blinked on and off in the morning light around us. I tried to watch them because they never last very long and I knew they'd soon be gone, but I didn't say anything. Maggie probably didn't want to talk about bugs. I tried to watch her too; I wanted especially to remember her, because I knew I'd never see her again.

"I love trains," I said. "I love that there's so much room in the aisles so I can do a little dance if I want to."

"You've never done that," she said.

"Of course not," I said with a silly grin, "but it's nice to have the option."

"... and you're not going to be on this train," she said faintly. She looked down at the space in front of her and I didn't know what to say. I still don't know what I should have said. The train whistle sounded and we talked about the other passengers stepping up into the cars: a young man with a briefcase and polished shoes, an old man with his wife, who wore a tall green hat. Maggie pulled her ticket from her bag and looked at it. She checked her watch. We talked about how we might meet again in a few years.

"Or maybe I'll come back through here in October or something," she said.

"Right," I said. "Come back in October."

Then the train blew its whistle in three short bursts and it was 0707 am. "Okay," she said, and she stood and smoothed her skirt with her hands. "Okay. I'm going to miss you Jonathan."

"I'll miss you too," I said, and I hugged her tightly and kissed her. She took up her bag and stepped quickly across the platform and up into the train car. When she got to her seat she found me through the window and we waved at each other as the train pulled away, and it rained every day for four months after that.

THE END