Velvet

The pool had gone stagnant. Marla stared at the greenish water collecting in the basement corner, where the foundation had cracked three months ago and Richard still hadn't called someone. Spinach leaves floated on the surface like little green boats, decomposing from the bag she'd dropped during their last fight. That was the thing about Richard — stubborn as a bull, charging forward whether or not anyone stood in his way, and usually she did.

She ran her fingers through her hair, noticing how much had come out in the shower drain that morning. Forty-two and suddenly her body was betraying her in increments. First the fertility treatments failed, then the cramps started, then her mother's voice crept into her thoughts: *You should have settled earlier.*

Marla sat on the basement stairs, listening to Richard move around upstairs. He'd taken the news about the baby — the one that wasn't coming, not anymore — with that terrifying calm. Like he'd already calculated the probabilities and moved on to the next variable. That was what she'd loved about him, once. His precision. The way he could look at a fox darting across their property and tell you its age, its health, whether it was searching for food or protecting kits.

Now it just felt like coldness.

She heard the basement door creak open. Richard's silhouette appeared at the top of the stairs.

"I called someone about the foundation," he said. "They're coming Tuesday."

"Okay."

"And Marla?"

"What?"

"I was thinking we could try again. In the spring."

Her heart hammered against her ribs. He hadn't moved on. He'd been waiting, recalculating, like always. But she looked at the stagnant pool, the rotting spinach, the cracks spreading through the concrete, and wondered whether some things couldn't be fixed. Whether some damage was just the kind you learned to live with, step around, pretend wasn't there until the next rain came.

"I don't know," she said. "I just don't know anymore."

He stood there in the doorway. She couldn't see his face, but she knew he was cataloging her response, filing it away, running the numbers again. Always running the numbers. Somewhere outside, a fox screamed, sharp and brief, like something being torn open.