The Fox at Midnight

Maria floated on her back in the hotel pool at 2 AM, the water cooling her sunburned skin. The resort papaya from dinner still lingered on her tongue—sweet, cloying, like the lies Richard had been feeding her all week. She'd come to Costa Rica to save their marriage. He'd come to close business deals.

A rustle in the palm grove drew her attention. A fox—impossibly sleek, impossibly still—watched her from the shadows. Its eyes reflected the pool lights, knowing and ancient. Maria had never expected to see a fox here, in this tropical paradise where nothing was supposed to surprise her anymore.

"You're swimming again," Richard's voice came from behind her. He'd been doing that lately—appearing without sound, like he'd been practicing how to be a ghost in his own life.

She rolled over, treading water. "I like the quiet."

"We leave at six," he said, already turning away. "Try to sleep."

The fox dipped its head in something like acknowledgment before slipping into darkness. Maria watched the ripples of her own movement spread across the pool's surface, thinking how swimming alone was easier than drowning together. She touched her wedding band, then slipped it off and set it on the pool edge, where the papaya sun would find it tomorrow morning.