The Dead Season

The fox came at dusk, every evening like clockwork, padding through the overgrown garden behind what remained of the pool house. Elena watched from the kitchen window, wine glass in hand, as the creature sniffed at the cracked tiles where their marriage had once hosted summer parties. The pool itself sat stagnant, a green mirror reflecting a sky that seemed perpetually gray since David left.

She found his hat in the closet yesterday — that ridiculous brown fedora he'd insisted made him look like Hemingway. It still smelled of his cologne and cigarette smoke. She'd tossed it in the trash, then fished it out twice before finally leaving it there among the empty hangers. The bull of a man who'd walked out three months ago with nothing but a suitcase and a flimsy excuse about finding himself.

"You're sleepwalking through your life," he'd said, as if he weren't the one who'd been hollowed out by middle management and mortgage payments. As if she were the zombie in their marriage, not him.

Her phone buzzed. A text from her sister: "You coming to the fundraiser? Mom's asking."

Elena considered lying, claiming illness or work, but what was the point? She'd been swimming in this pool of self-pity long enough. The fox darted back into the woods, its red tail vanishing like a flame in the dusk. Tomorrow she'd drain the pool. Tomorrow she'd call the therapist her coworker kept recommending. Tonight, she finished her wine and set the glass down with a decisive clink.

Outside, the first stars appeared, indifferent and patient. She wasn't the first woman to be hollowed out by love, and she wouldn't be the last. But she'd be damned if she stayed empty forever.