The Last Goodbye

Mara found her old friend Julia at the vitamin shop, of all places. The fluorescent lights hummed overhead as Julia stared blankly at rows of supplements, her hand hovering over B-complex bottles she didn't reach for.

"You look like a zombie," Mara said, and immediately hated herself for it. But it was true—Julia's skin had that grayish pallor, eyes glassy and unfocused. They hadn't spoken in six months, not since the incident at David's wedding. Not since Julia had drunkenly confessed she'd been sleeping with Mara's husband.

The irony wasn't lost on Mara. Here they were, surrounded by products promising vitality, while their friendship had been decomposing for years.

"I'm pregnant," Julia said, still not looking at her. "Hence the vitamins."

Mara's stomach twisted. She'd wanted this for years, had undergone three rounds of failed IVF while Julia—beautiful, careless Julia—had apparently achieved it with someone who wasn't even trying. Someone who wasn't her husband.

That night, a fox screamed in Mara's backyard. She stood at the window watching the red silhouette move through the fog, thinking how foxes were known for being cunning, for surviving. For doing whatever necessary.

She thought about calling Julia. About forgiving her. About asking if they could start over, be the friends they'd been in college, staying up all night drinking cheap wine and dreaming of futures that looked nothing like their lives.

Instead, she poured her husband's scotch down the sink and packed a bag. Some friendships don't survive the transformation. Some bonds, once broken, leave you wandering through your own life like the walking dead—present, but not quite alive.

The fox screamed again, closer this time. Mara left the bag by the door and turned off the lights. Tomorrow, she'd buy vitamins. Tomorrow, she'd start over. Tonight, she just needed to sleep.