It starts as a rumbling. I look outside, thinking it is thunder. The ground is bone dry. The clear black sky is studded with stars. Then my bed begins to shake like some invisible force rattles from under it. I get off my shaking bed. Switch on the light. Peer under it. There is nothing there. Our two-bedroom house continues to shake as though tossed by a wave. I hear the books falling on the floor and spoons, glasses, and plates toppling from the kitchen shelves. The couches and cupboards make a creaking noise. My heart thumps loudly as though I have run a marathon. I quickly gather my ID card, house, and car keys.
As I stumble through the hallway, I bump into my husband. He's been sleeping in the spare room for the past week. The wooden floor beneath us is threatening to crumble at any moment. A loud crash startles us. Our wedding photo, taken four years ago, lies on the floor surrounded by shards of glass. We lock eyes, a cold silence hanging between us that had become all too familiar in the past few weeks. Ever since I discovered his affair with an ex after a drunken night at a work conference. Ever since, he learned about my growing connection with a male colleague, which led to a few intimate dinner meetings.
I find myself reminiscing about a time before this tumultuous phase, when our evenings were spent at the local beach bars, swaying to the rhythm of live music. The air was filled with the aroma of fancy cocktails and grilled lobsters. When we'd watch the sunset at the beach, relishing the salty smell of waves and that sand tickling under our feet, those days when our love was vibrant, our laughter infectious, and our future seemed promising with his career as an investment banker and my prospects as an interior designer. It had all gone wrong somewhere. I wonder whether it was our frequent arguments about his family's pressure to start one of our own or that time when I was denied a promotion that made me sink into depression for days, accusing him of not being understanding.
The ground quakes again, this time with a ferocity that sends us scrambling out of the front door. Our neighbors, clad in their nightwear, stand in shock outside their homes. I watch our house convulse as if seized by a violent fit. The sound of sirens, distant at first, grows louder, a cacophony of impending doom.
Then, almost a few minutes later, the shaking subsides. Everything becomes eerily still. We step inside our home cautiously. The floor has a crack. The curtains are ripped down. I am unsure how long it would take to fix everything right. Would we come out of this catastrophe unscathed? Then, my husband takes my hand hesitatingly. Hand in hand, we enter our wrecked home. Remnants of cracks would still be visible. At the moment, I am just relieved to be given the possibility of a second chance.
