The Fox in the Orange Light

The **pool** had gone green with neglect, much like the space between them. Elena sat on the deck chair, watching the algae bloom across the water's surface, nursing a gin and tonic that had long since gone watery. Inside, David was cable-tying the last of their boxes—the sharp *zip-hiss* of each strap punctuating the silence like accusations.

"Your **hair**," he'd said that morning, running his fingers through it one last time. "You used to let me brush it."

She hadn't responded. What was there to say? That she'd stopped letting him touch her somewhere around year three, when his touch had started feeling like obligation rather than desire? That affection, once instinctual, had become a performance they both half-assed?

The sun was setting now, painting everything in bruised **orange** light. It reminded her of their first apartment—that terrible rental with the drafty windows and the neighbor who smoked cloves. They'd been so hungry then, in every sense. Not just for food but for each other, for life, for whatever came next.

Now she was just hungry. Period.

A movement caught her eye. A **fox** emerged from the bushes, sleek and wary, its coat glowing copper in the dusk. It padded to the water's edge, looked at her with eyes too intelligent for comfort, then lapped delicately from the fetid pool.

"At least someone's drinking," she said aloud.

David came out then, cardboard box in his arms. The cable ties dangling from his wrist clicked softly. He stopped beside her chair, watching the fox.

"You know," he said quietly, "we could still fix the pool."

She looked at the fox, at the green water, at the man she'd loved until she'd forgotten how.

"We could," she said. "But we'd just let it go green again."

The fox vanished into the shadows as the last light died. David set down the box and sat beside her. They didn't touch. They just watched the darkness take over, neither one moving to turn on the lights.