The Fox at the Water Cooler

Mara stood by the break room window, nursing a cup of cold coffee. Through the glass, she watched an orange fox dart between parked cars in the lot below—a flash of wild color against the gray corporate landscape.

"You're going to miss him, aren't you?" David's voice behind her. He'd been her work friend for seven years, the only person who knew about her daughter's addiction, her mother's slow decline, the way she sometimes cried in her car during lunch.

"I don't miss the man," she said carefully. "I miss having someone to hate together."

Their boss had been fired yesterday. Embezzlement, workplace harassment, a parade of humiliations splashed across the morning news. They'd all celebrated at happy hour, bought drinks for the junior staff, toasted to new beginnings. But now the office felt hollow without the enemy they'd united against.

The fox appeared again, this time with something in its mouth—a discarded sandwich, perhaps. Nature abhorred a vacuum. Something would always fill the empty spaces.

"They're promoting Sheila," David said. "Starting Monday."

Mara turned from the window. Sheila, who'd reported their boss to HR. Sheila, who'd copied Mara on emails implicating half the department in schemes she'd never understood. The water cooler bubbled behind them, a constant artificial sound.

"Be careful what you wish for," she said, and meant something more layered than she could explain.

That night, she dreamed of drowning in orange water, her friend David watching from the shore while foxes circled her floating body. In the morning, she updated her resume and sent Sheila a congratulatory email. The fox had eaten, after all. Someone always did.