What Remains

The hat hung on the hook by the door—a fedora, absurd and theatrical, the kind of hat men buy when they're trying to become someone else. Elena had hated it from the moment Richard brought it home three years ago. He'd worn it to dinner that night, tilting it at what he thought was a rakish angle, and she'd smiled through the tightening in her chest. That smile had become a reflex.

Tonight, she stood at the kitchen island, chopping spinach with aggressive precision. The knife's rhythm against the cutting board was the only sound in the apartment. Richard was working late again, or maybe he wasn't. She'd stopped asking.

Barnaby, their elderly golden retriever, pressed his warm side against her leg. His snout was greying now, just like Richard's temples. Barnaby had been her wedding gift to Richard—a symbol of the life they'd build together. Now he was the only thing that still felt like theirs.

The spinach wilted in the pan, surrendering without protest. She watched it turn dark, thinking about how Richard used to make fun of her 'rabbit food' until his doctor prescribed statins. Now he pretended to enjoy it, the same way he pretended to enjoy her friends, her career ambitions, her.

She turned off the burner. The spinach sat there, congealing. She wasn't hungry anymore.

Barnaby whined, nudging her hand with his wet nose. His brown eyes held that particular canine wisdom—the kind that absorbed everything, judged nothing. He'd witnessed the shouting matches, the silent treatments, the nights Richard slept on the couch. He'd been there when she stopped wearing her wedding ring to work.

Elena looked at the hat again. Tomorrow, she would pack her things. But tonight, she took Richard's fedora from the hook, put it on Barnaby's head, and laughed for the first time in months. The dog shook his head, and the hat tumbled to the floor.

'You're right,' she said. 'It never did suit him anyway.'