Vitamins at the Edge of the Pool

The vitamin C tablets rattled in the plastic bottle—my daily ritual of denial. At forty-seven, I'd started measuring my life in supplements and morning runs, each mile another attempt to outrun the quiet accumulation of years. Arthur was gone three months now, and I was still running from the empty spaces he'd left behind.

Then I saw it: a fox, sleek and improbable, standing at the edge of the apartment complex pool. Its russet coat burned against the predawn gray. We locked eyes across the water, and in that suspended moment, I understood why people called them clever—this creature had found sanctuary in suburban anonymity, just like I had.

The fox dipped one delicate paw into the pool, testing. I stepped closer, my running shoes silent on the concrete. It didn't flee. Instead, it watched me with something that looked dangerously like recognition.

"You're not from here," I whispered. But wasn't I? After twenty years in this city, after building a career and a marriage and then watching both unravel, I was still an interloper in my own life.

The fox's ear twitched. From the shadows, a dog—a Golden Retriever from 4B—burst out, barking, breaking our conspiracy. The fox vanished like smoke, and the dog's owner, Dave from accounting, hurried after, apologizing. I waved him off, already turning back toward my apartment.

Inside, the vitamin bottle waited on the counter. I considered the tablets—orange circles promising health, longevity, continuity—and pushed them aside. Some things can't be supplemented or outrun. The fox would return tomorrow, or maybe it wouldn't. That was the point.

I started coffee instead. Some mornings, that's enough.