Inventory of Us

The iPhone lay on the kitchen counter between us, its screen glowing with an unsent message. Sarah's thumb hovered over the glass, that familiar gesture I'd watched a thousand times across restaurant tables, in movie theaters, in bed. Now it was different.

"That's the last of it," she said, her voice flat. "My stuff, anyway."

Our cat, Luna, wound through my legs, purring. She'd always been Sarah's cat, really—the one who'd picked her out at the shelter, who slept on her pillow. Now the cat rubbed against my shins like she knew something was wrong. Animals sense these things before we do. They sense the quiet before the storm.

"What about Bear?" I asked. The question hung there, heavier than it should have.

Sarah looked up from her phone. Our chocolate Lab, Bear, was asleep in the corner, snoring gently. We'd adopted him together our second year of marriage, named him Bear because he was built like a tank but sweet as honey. Now he was another line item in the inventory of us.

"He's old," Sarah said. "Maybe he should stay here. Moving would be hard on him."

"So would losing his mother."

The word slipped out before I could catch it. Sarah flinched.

"That's not fair," she whispered.

"What part of this is fair?" I gestured at the boxes stacked around us. Five years of marriage reduced to cardboard and packing tape. The dog stirred in his sleep, dreaming. I wondered what dogs dreamed about—long walks, tennis balls, or maybe the smell of people who loved them.

Sarah's iPhone buzzed. Him. The architect she'd been working with, the one she'd mentioned too casually last month. The one who'd made her laugh like she used to laugh with me.

"I should go," she said, slipping the phone into her pocket. "My flight's at six."

She kissed Luna's head. She looked at Bear one last time, something unreadable in her eyes. Then she walked out the door without looking back.

The house settled into silence. Luna jumped onto the counter and sniffed the spot where Sarah's phone had been. Bear woke up, stretched, and padded over to me, nudging my hand with his wet nose.

"It's just us now," I told him, and he thumped his tail against the floor, once, like he understood.

The iPhone's screen went dark. In the reflection, I saw my own face—tired, alone, completely unprepared for what came next.