Still Water

The fox came at dusk, just as Elena had expected it would. She stood at the edge of the pool, her wine glass sweating against her palm, watching the rust-colored creature pick its way through the dead marigolds. Three years she'd lived in this house, and not once had she seen a fox—until now, until the week after David moved out.

The pool hadn't been drained yet. David was supposed to do it before he left, another chore on his endless list of unfinished things. The water had gone stagnant, a thin green scum spreading across the surface like an unwelcome thought you couldn't quite shake. Elena watched the fox approach the water's edge, its movements careful, suspicious. It dipped its snout, drank, then looked up directly at her.

"You too," she said aloud, and the fox's ears swiveled toward her voice.

She remembered David's face when he told her he didn't love her anymore—not the telling, but the careful weeks leading up to it, the way he'd started swimming laps at midnight, coming to bed smelling of chlorine and distance. The pool had been his project, his pride. She'd never understood it until now, this urge to immerse yourself in something that could both hold you and pull you under.

The fox lapped at the water, its tongue quick and precise. Elena set down her glass and stepped closer. She could see her reflection in the pool's surface—her hair unbrushed, the fine lines around her eyes that seemed to have deepened overnight. The water was still, impossibly still, like the pause between heartbeats.

"He's not coming back," she told the fox. It lifted its head, water dripping from its chin, and regarded her with eyes the color of old brass. Then it turned and loped away, disappearing into the shadows of the garden wall, without looking back once.

Elena stood alone in the gathering dark. Behind her, the house waited with its too-quiet rooms and half-packed boxes. The pool water held the last of the day's light, a fractured blue that seemed to come from nowhere at all. She realized then that she'd been waiting for the fox to run, for the water to ripple, for something to break the surface and prove there was still movement in the world. But the water remained stubbornly still, and she remained standing at its edge, alive and alone and entirely unsure how to begin.