What We Buried in the Living Room

The dog knew first. Old Barnaby, who'd slept at the foot of our bed for eleven years, started whimpering at 3 AM, months before I found the texts. He'd nose open the door to Marcus's home office and just stand there, tail tucked, staring at nothing. Animals sense the things we can't name yet.

The cable guy came on a Tuesday. I remember because Marcus had taken the day off work, supposedly sick, but I came home early to find him replacing the internet cable himself. His face went gray when he saw me in the doorway. "Just trying to fix the connection," he said, but the room already felt disconnected from itself.

Six months later, I'm unpacking boxes in this apartment half the size of our old one. The movers asked if I wanted to keep the bookshelf with the Egyptian replica Marcus bought in Cairo—that miniature sphinx with the missing ear. I told them to trash it. Some riddles don't need solving.

My neighbor has a cat. A ragged orange thing that sits on my windowsill, watching me drink wine alone on Friday nights. Last week, the cat pawed at the glass when I cried over a photo from our anniversary trip. Better company than the person who promised forever while scrolling through dating apps in the next room.

Marcus called yesterday. Said he wanted to talk, that the counseling was working, that he was sorry about the bullshit with his coworker. The way he said bull—soft, practiced—made me realize he'd been rehearsing. What he doesn't understand: this isn't about forgiveness. It's about how love died like an old dog, quietly, while I was busy pretending nothing was wrong.

Barnaby passed two weeks ago. I buried him in the backyard of the house Marcus still owns. Sometimes I wonder if the new owners will find him, or if he'll stay beneath the earth like a secret, decomposing into something that can finally help something grow.

The cat is meowing at the window now. I let it in. It jumps onto my lap, purring like nothing's wrong. Maybe that's the lesson: some creatures move forward. Others just dig.