High Water at Low Tide

Mara stood at the kitchen sink, watching the water rise in the dirty glass she'd been meaning to wash for three days. The faucet dripped—drip, drip, drip—counting out the hours since Elias left. His departure hadn't been dramatic. No thrown plates, no slammed doors. Just a half-packed suitcase and a mumbled apology about needing space, whatever that meant.

She turned off the tap and the water settled, calm and opaque, hiding whatever filth had accumulated at the bottom. That was the thing about water: it could look so peaceful while drowning you from the inside out.

The phone buzzed on the counter. Her mother, again.

"Have you heard from him?"

"No, Mom."

"Your sister saw him at that bar downtown. With that redhead from his office. The one with the sharp features. What's her name?"

Fox. Mara had heard the name before, whispered in the context of happy hours and late-night work emergencies. She was everything Mara wasn't: calculating, sleek, always three moves ahead. The kind of woman who wouldn't let a relationship dissolve into passive silence because she was too afraid to demand more.

"I have to go, Mom."

Mara ended the call and walked to the window. Their building overlooked a park where, even now, people walked their dogs before work. She watched an old man with a golden retriever, the animal straining at its leash, tail wagging, desperate for affection that the man couldn't seem to give. Good dogs didn't question your love. They didn't make you prove it over and over. They just waited, hopeful and stupid, for whatever scraps you offered.

Like her.

The water glass still sat on the counter. Mara picked it up and drank, swallowing everything she'd been too afraid to say for six years. It tasted like copper and regret.

Her phone lit up again. Not her mother this time.

*Can we talk?*

Mara's thumb hovered over the screen. Somewhere in the city, Elias was probably sitting in his new apartment, or maybe with Fox, reconsidering. The water settled in her stomach, heavy and final. She could go back. She could be the good dog, waiting at the door, grateful for whatever scraps he offered.

Instead, she poured the remaining water down the drain and watched it spiral away, taking what was left of her patience with it.

*No.*