What the Animals Know

The spinach had been in the crisper drawer for two weeks, gathering condensation like tears in a plastic coffin. Maria pulled it out anyway. Some masochistic instinct made her want to cook the dinner she'd planned for the night Julian walked out.

Copper, her elderly dog, huffed from his bed. His hips were failing him now—funny how bodies aged just as hearts were breaking. She'd gotten Copper as a puppy with Julian, back when they still believed in forevers. The dog had outlasted their marriage.

"Coming, buddy," she said, rinsing the spinach under cold water that numbed her fingers.

A shadow moved across the linoleum. Smoke, the cat Julian had surprised her with three Christmases ago, wound through her legs. The cat purred, a rumble like distant thunder. Smoke had always known when Maria was hurting, even back when she was trying to hide it from herself.

She dropped the spinach into the hot pan—steam rose like ghosts. The kitchen was too quiet. No Julian explaining his day at the firm, no clinking of his whiskey glass against hers. Just her, and the animals, and the crushing realization that she was alone at forty-two, starting over.

Maria reached for the orange she'd bought at the farmer's market. Its color shocked her—so vivid, so alive against the gray of her evening. She'd worn an orange dress the night they met. Julian had told her it made her look like fire, like something he couldn't look away from. Now it just reminded her of things that burned too bright and left ash behind.

The cat jumped onto the counter. Maria didn't have the energy to shoo her away. They watched each other—woman and animal, both survivors of something that hadn't worked. Smoke's amber eyes held none of the judgment Maria felt for herself.

The spinach was done, wilted and soft. Maria ate standing up, the dog at her feet, the cat still watching, as the orange light of sunset filled the empty apartment and she finally, finally let herself cry.