Ringtones at 3 AM

Maria sat on the edge of the bathtub, her cat Bombay curled around her ankles like a living question mark. The iPhone on the counter lit up again — David's name, third time tonight. She'd stopped answering after the second glass of wine, but the notifications kept coming, each one a tiny electric pulse against her thigh.

The cat had been David's idea. A year ago, he'd shown up at her door with a cardboard carrier and that devastating smile, the one that had gotten her promoted over three more qualified candidates. "Thought you could use some company," he'd said, and she'd been too naive to recognize the manipulation wrapped in thoughtfulness.

Now she ran the water, letting it overflow onto the tile floor. The steam rose around her like a curtain between then and now. She thought about the dog David's ex-wife kept posting about — some golden retriever mix that looked like it had never known a lonely day in its life. The woman had commented on Maria's post about Bombay: "He looks like he needs warmth. David always runs cold."

The message had appeared while Maria was in a meeting with the VP who'd eventually fire her for "conduct unbecoming." She'd stared at those words while her phone buzzed with incoming calls from David, his assistant, then HR.

The water reached her waist. She lowered herself in, clothes and all, the fabric heavy against her skin like regret. Bombay mewed from the doorway, confused by this human ritual. On the counter, her iPhone lit up once more: a photo from David. It showed them at the company holiday party, his arm around her waist, both of them laughing. She'd thought it was happiness. She'd thought a lot of things.

She reached for the phone, water dripping from her fingers, and deleted the photo. Then the thread. Then his number. The cat approached, sniffing at her wet clothes, and she pulled him into the tub with her. He struggled, claws extended, but she held him like a lifeline. "We're both getting out," she whispered, "just not tonight."