What Remains in the Glass

Mara ran her fingers through her tangled hair, staring at the woman across the table. Sarah — her former friend, her once-lover, the person who had held her while she sobbed over her mother's death three years ago — was now practically a stranger. They hadn't spoken since the funeral. Until today.

The bar was dimly lit, the kind of place where people came to drown things they couldn't say aloud. Mara's glass of water sat untouched, condensation tracing tears down its sides.

"You look tired," Sarah said, and the old intimacy in her voice made Mara's chest tighten.

"I am." Mara didn't offer more. What could she say? That she'd spent the last three years building walls so thick she'd forgotten how to be seen? That she still dreamed of Sarah's hands on her skin, waking up gasping and alone?

Sarah's phone buzzed. She glanced at it, then back at Mara. "My cat's sick. Lymphoma. I should probably go."

The news hit Mara harder than it should have. That cat — a judgmental Siamese named Prudence who had hated everyone except Sarah — had been a constant during the two years they lived together. Mara had secretly loved the cat, tolerated the scratches, the way Prudence would sleep on her pillow when Sarah wasn't looking.

"I'm sorry," Mara said, and meant it. "Is there... anything I can do?"

Sarah's expression softened. She reached across the table, her fingers hovering over Mara's hand before pulling back. The almost-touch was worse than nothing.

"You could come say goodbye," Sarah said quietly. "She remembers you, you know. Every time I open the cabinet where you kept your tea bags, she cries."

Mara swallowed. The water in her glass rippled. She thought about all the things she'd walked away from to protect herself. The irony wasn't lost on her — she'd spent three years trying not to drown, only to realize she'd never learned to swim in the first place.

"Okay," Mara said. "Let me say goodbye."