The Fox in the Garden

Ellen sits on the edge of the bed, running her fingers through my hair one last time. Outside, a cat screams somewhere in the alley—that terrible, human-like sound that always makes us both flinch. We haven't spoken since I told her about the promotion in Chicago. Three hours of silence, which somehow feels louder than all our fights combined.

'You going to take the baseball mitt?' she asks, finally. It's sitting on top of the packed box by the door—a relic from college intramurals I haven't touched in seven years. A strange thing to choose as her first question.

I shake my head. 'You can throw it out.'

She presses her palm against my cheek, her hand cool and familiar. 'I'm not going to throw out your things, David.' There's something devastating about her tone. Not angry, not pleading. Just tired. The kind of tired that accumulates like silt after years of sleeping beside someone who's slowly becoming a stranger.

We met at a cousin's wedding. I spilled champagne on her dress; she laughed instead of getting upset. That was the thing about Ellen—she never made me feel like I was failing, even when I obviously was. But somewhere between the mortgage and the miscarriage we stopped talking about anything that mattered. We became roommates who happened to share a bed, who happened to love each other in that careful, dwindling way that's worse than hate.

Last night I dreamed about a fox in the garden, standing on the patio and watching me through the glass doors. In the dream, I knew it had been coming there for years, waiting. When I woke at 3 AM, Ellen was curled away from me, her breathing light and false. She wasn't asleep.

'The fox,' I say now, without meaning to.

She pulls her hand back. 'What?'

'Nothing.' I should tell her I'll stay. I should tell her Chicago doesn't matter, that none of it matters. But the words catch in my throat like they've been caught for years. The cat screams again outside, closer this time, and Ellen stands up, smoothing her dress.

'Your flight's at six,' she says. 'You should go.'