The Bull in the Glass

Margaret stood at the bathroom sink, peeling an orange with surgical precision. The citrus spray misted her cheeks, sharp and clean, cutting through the stale air of the bedroom she'd stopped sharing three months ago.

In the mirror, she saw what Richard saw—what he'd always seen. The set of her jaw. The refusal to yield. He'd called her stubborn like a bull, though never quite so politely. Last night's argument had been no different. "You're charging at everything," he'd said, voice heavy with that familiar exhaustion. "Sometimes things just need to be left alone."

She'd stormed out. She always stormed out.

The orange segments separated easily in her hands. Juicy, bright, uncomplicated. Why couldn't life be this simple? Why did every conversation become a battlefield where someone had to win?

She walked to the backyard, where the small fountain Richard had installed for their anniversary still trickled, oblivious to the disintegration of their marriage. Water cascaded over artificial stones, a soothing sound that had become background noise to their silences.

Margaret sat on the bench, eating her orange piece by piece. The sun was setting, painting the sky in bruised purples and oranges that matched the fruit in her hand. She watched the water flow—relentless, adaptable. It found cracks, filled spaces, wore down stone not through force but through persistence.

Not like her. She was the bull, goring through obstacles, leaving destruction in her wake.

Her phone buzzed on the bench. Richard, probably. Or maybe he'd finally stopped calling.

She let it ring, watching the water's surface, perfectly smooth until disturbed. Then ripples spread outward, touching everything, changing everything, before settling again into something new.

Margaret stood up, wiping sticky citrus juice on her jeans. For the first time in thirty-five years, she didn't charge. She walked back toward the house, toward the phone, toward whatever came next. Not like a bull. Like water.