Just After Midnight

by Catherine Ryan Hyde

Greg. “Did I see what?” “The green flash.” “Oh. No. I’ve heard of it. But I didn’t see it just now.” “My mother used to tell me that when someone saw it, they usually felt like it changed their lives somehow. But I don’t know if that’s just a legend.” “Do you feel different?” “Not really,” she said, poking around for anything she might be feeling. “I wonder if I imagined it,” she added out loud, wishing she had only said it in her head. “Since you didn’t see it.” “It was probably my sunglasses,” he said. “You can take them off now.” “Excuse me?” “The sun is down. Even you don’t need a hat, a beach umbrella, and sunglasses when the sun is down.” “Better yet,” he said, removing nothing, “we could move this conversation into the living room. I have a nice bottle of wine in there, breathing.” Faith leapt to her feet, almost before she realized she was about to do so. She stood in front of him, covering as much of herself as she could with the towel, wanting to speak but feeling the next words out of her mouth would be sputtery and embarrassing. She risked it. “I don’t think that’s a good idea,” she said, sounding sputtery and embarrassed. Perhaps even more so than she had imagined. “I’m right in the middle of an ugly divorce. Well, I shouldn’t say ‘ugly’ like I know it for a fact, because I really haven’t even heard his reaction to my filing for divorce. I left before I could hear how he planned to handle it. But I’ve known him for nine years, so it’s a pretty good guess that ...