Lines We Cross

The dog knew first. Buster, Sarah's aging golden retriever, had begun sleeping outside the bedroom door, as if guarding against something he couldn't name. Sarah pressed her palm against the cool glass of the bathroom mirror, studying the new lines etched around her eyes — thirty-eight years old and suddenly feeling like she'd been living someone else's life.

"You're not happy, are you?" Mark asked from the doorway, his voice soft with the weight of three years' worth of unsaid things.

Sarah's hair fell in messy strands around her face. She'd stopped coloring it six months ago, letting the silver threads emerge like small rebellions. "I don't know what I am anymore."

The palm reader at the carnival had said she'd meet a dark stranger who'd change everything. She'd been twenty-two then, foolish enough to believe in destiny. Now she knew the truth: people didn't change; they just got better at hiding who they'd always been.

Mark crossed the small bathroom, his palm covering hers on the mirror. "I found the plane tickets, Sarah."

Her heart hammered against her ribs. Buster scratched at the door, sensing the earthquake beneath their feet.

"It's not what you think," she whispered. "I booked them for us. Costa Rica. Remember? Before Mom got sick, before everything..."

Mark's expression shifted. "Oh."

"But then you stopped talking to me," she continued, her voice gaining strength. "You started working late, coming home smelling like her perfume. Mark's assistant. The one with the perfect hair and the fake laugh."

He pulled away. "Sarah, that's not—"

"I'm not stupid," she said. "I'm just tired."

The dog whined from the hallway, a sound that broke something loose in her chest.

"I didn't," Mark said. "I swear. But I thought about it. I wanted to feel something again. Like we used to."

Sarah turned to face him. "So what do we do now?"

"We could go," he said quietly. "To Costa Rica. If you still have the tickets."

The palm of her hand tingled where he'd touched it. Buster nosed the door open, his tail thumping against the doorframe — tentative hope, like them.

"We'd need to find someone to watch the dog," Sarah said, and for the first time in months, something like a smile flickered across Mark's face.

"I think," he said, "that can be arranged."