The Animals Between Us

The divorce papers sat on the kitchen counter beneath the cat's empty water bowl. Three days, and Sylvester still hadn't noticed the white envelope between his kibble and the wall. That was typical.

Margaret stood at the sliding glass door, watching the dog—our dog, technically—chase squirrels across the neighbors' manicured lawn. Golden retriever, loyalty incarnate, and now she'd probably take him too. Along with the house. The retirement account. Whatever scraps of dignity remained.

A fox appeared at the treeline, russet coat gleaming like something expensive and forbidden. It moved differently than the suburban creatures—deliberate, knowing, eyes that had seen things happened in the dark. Just like David's assistant, that young woman with the clever smile and the predatory patience, waiting for her moment.

"You've been running from this for years," Margaret's therapist had said. But Margaret wasn't running. She was finally standing still.

She remembered finding the text messages at 2 AM, the glow of David's phone illuminating his sleeping face like accusation. The fox at the treeline turned and vanished into the woods, same way David had vanished from their marriage incrementally—first emotionally, then physically, now legally.

The dog returned, panting, expecting dinner. The cat finally noticed the papers and rubbed against them, leaving white hairs on the legal document that would dismantle fifteen years. Margaret should feed them. Should pack. Should do something besides stand here watching wildlife consume the evidence of other lives.

Instead, she poured wine, two glasses. One for her, one for the ghost of who they used to be. Outside, something small screamed in the darkness. The hunt continued, with or without them.