High Water Mark

The coaxial cable lay severed on the floor like a dead snake, its copper entrails gleaming dully in the afternoon light. Elena stared at it, as if it might explain why David had left three months ago, why the apartment still held the ghost of his cologne on the pillows, why she kept paying for cable television neither of them watched anymore.

She'd come to say goodbye. Properly this time. The boxes were packed, the lease terminated. Outside, the Florida heat pressed against the windows, humid and suffocating.

A noise from the bathroom — water running. But she'd turned everything off yesterday. Elena pushed the door open and froze. The faucet was indeed running, a steady stream she couldn't have left, and from the toilet basin, a small gray cat emerged, soaking wet, shaking droplets across the floor she'd meticulously cleaned.

"You," she said, startled. "You're the neighbor's cat."

The cat regarded her with ancient, judgmental eyes, then padded to her and rubbed against her ankle, leaving a dark wet streak on her pant leg. David had hated cats. Had called them nature's sociopaths. Elena had always wanted one.

She scooped it up, felt its tiny heart hammering against her palm. The fur was soft, warmer than she expected. Something loosened in her chest — a knot she hadn't realized was there, tight as a cable pulled to its breaking point.

"Well," she told the cat. "I suppose I'm not leaving today."

The super would have to deal with the water. The cable company could disconnect their service whenever. She sat on the floor, the cat purring in her lap like a small motor, and watched the dust motes dance in the light. For the first time in three months, she didn't feel like she was waiting for something to end. She felt like something was beginning.