Foxglove at Midnight

The cat—a sleek, indifferent Russian Blue named Mephistopheles—watched me from the kitchen counter as I wilted spinach in a pan that cost more than my first car. I was housesitting for Clara and James, their suburban palace with the heated pool and the mortgage I couldn't fathom, trying to convince myself that eating alone at a marble island was self-care rather than surrender.

You would've hated this place, I thought, swirling wine in a glass that probably required handwashing. You with your threadbare towels and your principled poverty and your hair the color of autumn leaves, the exact shade a fox turns when it's preparing to vanish into the woods.

Three months since you left, and still I found myself reaching for the ghost of you. Like now, standing at the patio doors in my underwear, staring at the pool where the water rippled in the wind like black silk. You would have jumped in—clothes, reservations, consequences be damned. You would have pulled me in after you, laughing as I sputtered and complained about my hair, my makeup, the absolute INCONVENIENCE of joy.

Mephistopheles wound around my ankles, purring like a small engine. I bent to scratch his chin, and he tolerated me with the imperious grace of something that knows its worth. Unlike me. Unlike us.

The spinach was overcooked now, reduced to something dark and regrettable. I turned off the stove, feeling suddenly ancient at thirty-two. The pool lights flickered on automatically, illuminating water that looked too inviting, too dangerous.

I didn't jump in. I stood there, watched the ripples, and finished my wine. Some ghosts you don't chase. Some pools you don't swim in. And some foxes, once they've vanished into the woods, are never meant to be found.