The Last Taxidermist

Margaret worked in the basement of the natural history museum, where the air always smelled of formaldehyde and old dust. She was preparing the sphinx for the new Egyptian exhibition—fiberglass and gold leaf, nothing organic, but still it seemed to watch her.

"Heard you're leaving," said Carlos, leaning against the doorframe with his thermos. His German shepherd, Bear—allowed on night shifts because the security chief was soft—lay at his feet, chin on paws.

Margaret didn't look up from the sphinx's painted eye. "End of the month."

"After thirty years?"

"Thirty-two." She paused. "Frank's been gone two years now. I keep thinking I should feel... finished with it. But I come down here every day and I'm still preserving things that should've been let go."

Bear lifted his head, ears perked.

"You ever notice how hair keeps growing?" Margaret said quietly. "Even after. On the bodies, I mean. I always found that—I don't know—hopeful. Like something refuses to accept what's happened."

Carlos nodded slowly. He'd heard this before.

"I found one of Frank's hairs on my pillow this morning," she said. "Two years later."

"Margaret—"

"I'm not being morbid. I'm being precise." She finally looked at him. "I think I've been like Bear there, waiting for something that's not coming back. The museum can find someone who actually cares about ancient cats made of fiberglass."

The sphinx's enigmatic smile caught the overhead light.

"So what's next?"

"I don't know," she said, and for the first time in two years, something like genuine curiosity crossed her face. "But I think I'd like to find out what rots. What's supposed to rot."

Bear stood, stretched, and nudged Carlos's hand with his wet nose. Above ground, the city hummed with all its ordinary, decaying, beautiful life.

Margaret put down her brush. "You want to get a drink?"

Carlos smiled. "I thought you'd never ask."