What the Dog Knew

The apartment smelled of abandonment. Elena stood in the kitchen, staring at the plastic container of spinach turning slimy in the crisper drawer. Three days since Marcus walked out, and she was still eating toast over the sink.

"You should call him," her sister had said over coffee that morning. "He's probably regretting it."

Regret was a luxury. Elena bit into a vitamin C tablet — the only thing she'd consumed all day that wasn't caffeine or regret. The chalky citrus coated her tongue, bitter and familiar.

Buster, Marcus's rescue mutt, sat by the door, thumping his tail at every sound from the hallway. The dog had chosen Elena tonight, curling against her feet on the couch as she scrolled through job listings at 2 AM. His head rested on her ankle, warm and impossibly present.

She wondered if Marcus thought about Buster. Probably. He'd loved that dog more than he'd ever loved her — or maybe he'd just been better at performing love for a creature that couldn't ask difficult questions.

Her phone buzzed. A text from Marcus: Can I come by tomorrow? Need to grab some things. Including the dog.

Elena looked down at Buster, who lifted his head at the vibration. His amber eyes held none of the complexity that had finally destroyed their marriage. No resentment about whose career took precedence. No bitterness about fertility treatments that failed while his colleagues posted ultrasound photos on Facebook. Just simple, uncomplicated devotion.

She thought about the spinach wilting in the refrigerator, the vitamins she choked down because her doctor said her stress levels were unsustainable, the way she'd started finding long dark hair in the drain — hers, now, not his.

The dog sighed against her leg.

She typed back: Come at noon. Then added: He's been good.

Tomorrow she'd give him the dog. Tonight, Buster slept on the end of the bed, and she pretended it was enough.