What Remains on the Screen

Marcus stood in his kitchen at 11 PM, the only light coming from the refrigerator and the iPhone glowing on the counter. He stared at the bag of spinach he'd bought three days ago—another attempt at becoming the kind of man who eats greens, who takes care of himself. The leaves were already wilting, turning slimy at the edges, much like his marriage had been in those last months before Elena left.

The phone buzzed again. Another notification from Nextdoor: someone reporting a fox sighting on Oak Street. Marcus deleted it, his thumb hovering over his ex-wife's name in his contacts. He'd typed and deleted messages a hundred times in the two weeks since she'd moved out. I made your favorite soup. I found your scarf. I saw a fox in the backyard and thought you'd want to know.

They used to sit on the back porch together, wine in hand, watching for the wildlife that occasionally wandered through their suburban Chicago neighborhood. Once, a fox had appeared at the edge of the woods—sleek and copper-colored, watching them with intelligent, unbothered eyes. Elena had gripped his arm, excited as a child. Look at him, she'd breathed. He's so beautiful.

Marcus turned on the stove and dumped the spinach into a pan with olive oil and garlic. The smell filled the kitchen, savory and bitter. He was trying, god, he was trying to be someone worth staying for. But what was the point of cooking for one? What was the point of learning to love spinach if there was no one to notice?

Movement outside the window caught his eye. Marcus stepped closer, wiping grease from his hands. There, beneath the pale glow of the streetlamp, stood the fox—a living ghost, ears pricked forward, watching him through the glass. For a moment, they stared at each other, separated by worlds. Then the fox turned and vanished into the darkness, leaving only the reflection of Marcus's own tired face staring back.

He returned to the stove and turned off the burner. The spinach was overcooked now, reduced to nothing. Marcus sat at the kitchen table, phone in hand, and finally typed the message he'd been meaning to send all week—not to Elena, but to himself. A reminder for tomorrow: Buy fresh spinach. Begin again.