The Art of Unbecoming

Elena stared at her reflection in the bathroom mirror, scissors trembling in her hand. Ten years of marriage to Philip had meant ten years of him telling her how beautiful she looked with long, chestnut **hair**. He'd run his fingers through it absently while watching TV, possessive without being present.

She cut it all off.

Choppy, uneven layers fell into the sink. She looked like she'd been attacked, which felt appropriate. Philip had left three months ago for his assistant, and Elena had been **running** ever since — literally, pounding the pavement at 5 AM until her lungs burned, training for a marathon she hadn't signed up for, because motion felt like progress even when it wasn't.

Her phone buzzed. A reminder: **Vitamin** D, with lunch. She'd become obsessed with supplements since the divorce, as if proper nutrition could repair the structural damage to her life. She swallowed a handful with tap water, staring at the expiration date: 2019. Nothing in this apartment was still good.

That's when she heard the whining.

An old golden retriever had been wandering the neighborhood for weeks, matted and ribs showing. Elena had been leaving food on her porch, careful not to get attached. But today, the **dog** stood there, head tilted, waiting.

"You too, huh?" she whispered.

She let him in. He smelled like wet earth and abandonment. He limped to her couch, collapsed as if he'd been searching for something for a very long time, and fell asleep instantly. Elena sat beside him, her newly-short fingers finding the matted fur around his ears.

The vitamins were expired. The marriage was over. Her hair would grow back or it wouldn't. She canceled her marathon registration. For the first time in months, Elena sat still, the dog's breathing syncing with hers, and stopped running away from herself.