The Fox and the Pool of Regrets

Miranda stood at the edge of the hotel pool at 2 AM, her reflection wavering in the chlorinated blue water. She'd left her room keys in the room, her phone charging on the nightstand, her marriage back in Seattle—effectively, she'd left everything that defined her.

The fox appeared at the treeline, rust-orange coat catching the moonlight. It watched her with intelligent eyes, head tilted, as if evaluating her worthiness for whatever wisdom it might impart. She'd never seen a fox this close to civilization before. Then again, she'd never been at a corporate retreat in the Arizona desert before, three vodka sodas deep and questioning every choice that had led to thirty-seven years of cautious mediocrity.

"You're here for the promotion, too," she told the fox, and laughed—a dry, cracked sound. "They're all swimming in that same pool. Let's see who drowns first."

The office betting pool had reached four thousand dollars. Everyone had money on whether she or Marcus—Marcus with his predatory grin and meticulous notes and the way he made sure everyone saw him working late—would get the Regional Director position. Her assistant had quietly informed her that most favored Marcus. Marcus, who'd made a point of mentioning his divorce at least three times during dinner, as if being suddenly single made him more interesting, more available, more willing to work weekends.

She'd caught him by the pool earlier, swimming laps with relentless precision, cutting through the water while everyone else drank cheap wine and complained about the flight. He'd emerged dripping, muscles sleek, and smiled at her with that fox-like intelligence that made her stomach turn. She'd declined his invitation to join him for a nightcap.

Now the fox approached the pool's edge, drank delicately. Miranda watched it drink and felt something break inside her—not painfully, but with the clean snap of a dead branch finally giving way under its own weight.

"You know what?" she said to the fox. "Fuck the pool. Fuck the bet. Fuck Marcus."

She stripped down to her underwear and dove in.

The water was shockingly cold, shocking her awake, shocking everything into clarity. She surfaced gasping, heart hammering, alive for the first time in months. Years. The fox watched from the edge, tail twitching, and she could have sworn it approved.

Tomorrow she would withdraw from consideration for the promotion. Tomorrow she would tell Richard she wanted a separation. Tomorrow she would stop waiting for permission to exist.

But tonight, she swam.