The Taxidermy of Us

The fox stared at me from its glass case, amber eyes frozen in perpetual alertness. Behind the bar, Marcus polished a tumbler, his movements methodical, practiced—the same way he'd polished our marriage into something that looked perfect from the outside but hollow within.

"She left the hat," he said, not looking up. "On the coat rack by the door."

I turned. A navy fedora, felt worn at the brim. My stomach clenched. It wasn't mine.

"Who?"

"Does it matter?" His laugh was dry, desiccated. "You were already gone by then anyway."

The bear head mounted above the register—Old Dan, Marcus called it—seemed to judge us both. I'd always hated it. The way its glass eyes caught light, its mouth forever open in a roar it never made. Taxidermy was just lies we told ourselves about permanence.

Outside, a dog barked at passing cars, relentless as memory itself.

"Remember that weekend in Asheville?" Marcus asked suddenly. "When we got lost hiking and saw that fox darting across the trail? You said it was an omen."

"An omen of what?"

"You never said. Just that it meant something." He finally met my eyes. "What did it mean, Sarah?"

The question hung between us like smoke. What had it meant? That moment—the russet flash of fur, sunlight through leaves, Marcus's hand warm in mine—had been perfect. That was the problem. Perfection made everything that came after feel like erosion.

"It meant we were alive," I said quietly. "Briefly."

He nodded, once, and went back to polishing glasses.

I reached for the fedora, then stopped. Let whoever she was come back for it. Some things should remain where they were left.

The fox watched me walk out, knowing something I didn't: sometimes you have to be stuffed, mounted, and displayed before anyone realizes you were ever real at all.