The Geometry of Loss

Margaret stood at the window of her forty-second floor apartment, watching the lightning fissure the sky above Chicago's skyline. Three years since David left, and she still couldn't sleep during storms.

On the sill, Barnaby — her late mother's orange tabby — blinked slowly at her. The cat had outlived them both, his fur thinning around the jowls, his purr a rusty engine. Margaret reached to stroke him, and he leaned into her palm with practiced devotion.

"You're still here," she whispered. "That's something."

Her phone buzzed. An email from her boss: mandatory restructuring meeting tomorrow. The corporate pyramid was about to get another flatter, and at fifty-three, Margaret knew exactly which stones would be crushed first. She'd spent two decades climbing those glass steps, sacrificing weekends, dates, the novel she'd always meant to write. For what? A severance package and the crushing realization that she'd been swimming upstream so long she'd forgotten what still water felt like.

The storm intensified. Rain lashed against the glass like desperate fingers. Margaret remembered the last time she'd gone swimming — that trip to Cancún with David, how he'd laughed when she was knocked over by a wave. The salt in her eyes, his hands pulling her up, the sun painting everything gold. That was before the miscarriage, before the months of silence turned permanent. Before she discovered that some losses hollow you out like a storm-drifted tree.

Barnaby jumped down, his arthritic landing thudding softly. He padded toward the kitchen, pausing to look back at her.

"Right," she said. "Dinner."

She followed him, and for a moment, the weight on her chest felt lighter. The lightning flashed again, illuminating the empty room, and she realized she wasn't afraid anymore. The pyramid could crumble. She'd be here, feeding this cat, watching storms, perhaps finally writing that story. Beginning again. Always beginning.