What the River Keeps

Marcus stood at the bathroom sink, razor hovering over his throat. The morning light caught gray in his sideburns—more of it every year, like someone was slowly dusting him in ash. He'd promised Elena he'd shave it all off before her sister's wedding. She hated his patchy attempts at beard cultivation, said it made him look like a college professor who'd given up on tenure.

Barnaby, their golden retriever, nudged his knee with a wet nose. The dog's whiskers left a damp patch on Marcus's pajama pants. Always the same routine: bathroom supervision at 6:47 AM, as if Marcus couldn't be trusted around running water without a witness.

He turned on the tap and the water rushed out—hard and insistent, like it had somewhere urgent to be. Marcus watched it swirl down the drain, carrying away the day's first shave gel and his accompanying sense of dread. Six months since Elena moved to Seattle for the promotion. Six months of video calls that pixelated her face into something almost familiar. Six months of conversations that felt like interviews, their intimacy reduced to bandwidth speeds and connection quality.

Barnaby whined, leaning into Marcus's leg. The dog had been Elena's idea—a rescue with separation anxiety, she'd said, laughing at the irony. Now the dog waited by the door most evenings, ears perked for footsteps that never came.

Marcus wiped steam from the mirror and studied his reflection. His hair had grown past his ears in her absence. Elena would've commented on it by now—probably would've offered to trim it herself, the way she used to, standing between his legs with kitchen scissors while he sat on a bar stool, her fingers warm against his neck.

He dropped the scissors in the sink. They hit the porcelain with a clatter that made Barnaby jump. The water was still running, mesmerizing and endless, and suddenly Marcus understood the urge people described—the one you read about in tragedies. The way water could seem like a solution, a doorway, a gentle erasure. Not that he would. But he understood the appeal of something that could simply wash everything away.

His phone buzzed on the counter. A text from Elena: 'Thinking about you. Can't wait for the wedding.'

Marcus turned off the water. The silence rushed in to fill the space, heavy and expectant. Barnaby rested his chin on Marcus's knee, amber eyes watching with that dog-like wisdom that humans project onto animals but maybe isn't entirely projection. Maybe they know things we can't articulate.

He picked up the scissors again and began to cut.