What the Fox Knows

The baseball game droned on in the background, another losing season for the Mets. Martin sat on the edge of the bed they'd shared for seven years, watching the cable box flicker through pixelated commercials. Sarah's clothes were gone from the closet, but her scent still clung to the pillowcases—lavender and that distinctive vanilla lotion she'd worn since college. He'd forgotten to buy more. He forgot a lot of things toward the end.

The goldfish bowl on the nightstand caught the gray afternoon light, its lone inhabitant swimming in endless circles. Goldie—original name, Sarah had said, her voice heavy with the sarcasm that had eventually become their primary love language. The fish had survived their relationship. Martin wasn't sure he had.

"Best of seven," the announcer's voice boomed from the television. "Everything on the line."

Everything had been on the line for months. Martin just hadn't realized until Sarah packed her boxes and left him with a mortgage he couldn't afford and a fish he didn't want. She'd taken the good coffee maker. She'd left her childhood goldfish, won at a carnival when she was eight, because she couldn't bear to move it again.

Movement outside the window caught his eye—a fox, copper-red and impossibly bright against the drab apartment complex landscaping. It stood still, watching him through the glass with ancient, knowing eyes. Martin held his breath. In the suburbs, foxes were rare visitors, ghosts of the wild that came and went like secrets.

The fox tilted its head, almost curious, then turned and vanished between buildings.

Martin's phone vibrated on the nightstand. Sarah's name lit up the screen. He let it ring, watching the goldfish continue its relentless orbit around the bowl. Some things were meant to stay in circles, and some things—like foxes, like Sarah—were meant to run wild and free.

The baseball game roared to life as someone hit a home run. Martin didn't cheer. He just sat there, missing them both.