The Fox at Sunset

I've been running for forty-five minutes when the fox appears. Not running in the literal sense—I'm standing on the padel court at the edge of our suburban development, racquet dangling from my sweat-slicked hand—but running in the way that matters. Running from the conversation Sarah and I didn't have this morning. Running from the email I opened but couldn't bring myself to answer. Running from the realization that I'm forty-three and still don't know what I'm doing with any of this.

The fox is standing at the chain-link fence, watching us play. Orange coat luminous against the graying sky, ears perked toward the rhythmic thwack of the ball against the glass walls. Sarah serves, misses, curses under her breath. She doesn't see it.

"You're distracted," she says, bending to retrieve the ball. Her yoga pants are worn thin at the knees. We've been coming to this court every Tuesday for six years. I know exactly how she'll move before she does it.

"Work stuff." The lie tastes like copper.

The fox tilts its head. Something about its gaze feels uncomfortably intelligent. Like it knows I've been sleeping in the guest room for three weeks. Like it knows about the promotion I turned down because I was afraid Sarah would leave me if I traveled more, even though she's the one who's been pulling away.

"I'm thinking about selling the practice," Sarah says suddenly. She bounces the ball, catches it. "I met someone at that conference last month. He runs a clinic in Oregon. They need a sports medicine specialist."

My stomach drops. This is it. The conversation we've been avoiding, finally arriving on a Tuesday evening under the watchful eye of a wild animal.

"Oregon?"

"It's beautiful there." She won't look at me. "And I'm tired, Mark. I'm tired of running this practice alone. I'm tired of running this marriage alone."

The fox chatters, a sharp sound that makes us both jump. It turns then, disappearing into the brush that borders the parking lot, leaving only the swaying of branches to prove it was ever there.

"I didn't know you felt alone," I say finally.

Sarah laughs, but there's no humor in it. "That's the problem, isn't it?"

She serves again. This time, I don't swing. I just watch the ball hit the back glass, bounce twice, roll to a stop at my feet.

Outside the court, somewhere in the gathering darkness, the fox screams.