The Weight of Taxidermy

The grizzly **bear** had been dead for forty years, but its glass eyes still seemed to hold more life than their marriage. Elena adjusted her **hat**—a wool becap she'd bought during their trip to Iceland, back when she still believed in landmarks and fresh starts—and pressed her forehead against the museum display case.

"You're doing it again," Marcus said from the bench behind her. "Finding meaning in things that can't hurt you."

She turned. He was eating from a plastic container, the **spinach** between his teeth a small green testament to his commitment to self-improvement, his midlife crisis manifesting as CrossFit and macro-counting while she'd spent the last six months showing up to work and calling it survival.

"The **pyramid** exhibit closes in twenty minutes," the guard announced from the end of the hall. His flashlight cut through the dim space like something judgmental.

"That's us," Marcus said, standing. "Closing time."

Outside, a stray **cat** watched them from atop a parked car, its tail twitching with what looked like amused detachment. Elena remembered the first apartment they'd shared, how they'd talked about getting a cat, making plans that dissolved into the daily erosion of deferred dreams. The cat jumped down and disappeared into the darkness.

"I filed the papers," she said. The words felt insufficient, like she was announcing she'd finally repaired the leaky faucet instead of dismantling their entire existence.

Marcus stopped. The spinach was stuck in his teeth. He looked suddenly older, the fluorescent streetlight exposing every way they'd failed each other.

"Oh," he said. "Okay."

They stood there as other museum-goers streamed past, couples holding hands, parents carrying sleeping children. The bear remained behind glass, preserved forever in its ferocious stillness, while they stood exposed in the messy, uncurated aftermath of choosing to stay alive.