The Last Thing She Touched

Mara found it in his jacket pocket—a black iPhone with a cracked screen, still warm from his body heat. She shouldn't have looked. She shouldn't have swiped through his photos while he slept beside her, his breathing rhythmic and trusting.

There she was, in someone else's palm. A stranger's hand cupping Mara's face, but the date stamp was last Tuesday, when David had sworn he was working late. The photo was grainy, taken through a restaurant window. David sat across from this woman, laughing, his hand reaching across the table.

Mara's hands trembled. On their nightstand stood the ceramic bear he'd given her three years ago, after she'd miscarried their first child. A silly, kitschy thing he'd found at a thrift store, its glaze chipped, its expression absurdly gentle. "Bears carry their losses," he'd said, pressing it into her palm. "They hibernate through the dark and wake up hungry again."

She'd believed him then.

The bathroom mirror showed her a woman she didn't recognize—hollow-cheeked, eyes rimmed red from not-crying. She turned on the faucet, let water run over her hands. Outside their bedroom, David stirred. "Mara?"

She could confront him. She could scream, throw the iPhone, watch it shatter like their life together. Instead she dried her hands, returned to the bedroom, and placed the phone back in his jacket pocket.

"Go back to sleep," she whispered, climbing into bed beside him. His arm draped over her waist, heavy and familiar. She stared at the ceramic bear on the nightstand until dawn grayed the room, wondering how long you could keep hibernating before you had to wake up alone.