The Last Call

The fox sat on its haunches outside the bar window, watching them with amber eyes that seemed to know something about endings. Marcus swirled the water in his glass, watching the condensation weep down the sides like the last three years of his marriage.

"You're like a fucking zombie," Sarah said, not looking at him. "Just walking through it all, aren't you? Not dead, not alive. Just ... existing."

Marcus wanted to argue. He wanted to tell her about the bull — his boss, who'd called him into the office that morning and told him his department was being dissolved. He wanted to explain that his numbness wasn't indifference, it was survival. But the words caught in his throat like glass.

"I'm tired," he said instead.

"Tired." Sarah laughed, a harsh sound. "You think you're tired? I'm the one who's been trying to solve you like a sphinx's riddle for years. What walks on four legs in the morning, two legs at noon, and three legs in the evening? What happens when the answer is just ... nothing?"

Outside, the fox dipped its head to something in the snow. A mouse? A discarded chicken wing? Marcus couldn't tell.

"I got laid off today," Marcus said quietly.

Sarah froze. Her anger faltered, replaced by something worse — pity. She reached across the table, then pulled her hand back.

"Oh."

"Yeah."

The silence stretched between them, thick and suffocating. The bar's neon sign buzzed overhead, casting everything in a sickly red glow. Marcus finished his water in one swallow. He thought about the fox outside, wild and ungovernable, and wondered what it would take to just walk away.

"Do you want another?" Sarah asked.

Marcus looked at her — really looked at her — and saw the exhaustion etched into her face, the way her shoulders slumped. She wasn't angry anymore. She was done.

"No," he said, standing up. "I think I'm going to go walk home. Clear my head."

Sarah nodded. She didn't ask him to come back.

Outside, the fox was gone. Only paw prints remained in the snow, already beginning to fill with fresh flakes. Marcus zipped his jacket and stepped into the cold, not looking back at the bar's warm glow. Some endings, he realized, didn't need announcements. They just happened, quiet as snowfall.