What We Could Not Bear

The restaurant was too expensive for a Tuesday, but that was the point. Elena watched the candlelight catch the silver in Thomas's hair — when had it gone so gray? She remembered when he'd looked like the boy who'd climbed into her dorm room at three AM, smelling of cheap beer and reckless possibility.

"You've got spinach," she said, gesturing to her own teeth.

He wiped his mouth with his napkin, missing it completely. She didn't tell him again.

They'd ordered the same thing for seventeen years. That was what you did when you made promises. What you bore when you'd said "forever" and meant it, even when forever started feeling like a sentence instead of a vow.

"How's Barnaby?" he asked, about the dog. Their dog, though he'd moved out two months ago.

"Fine. He sleeps on your side of the bed."

Thomas nodded. He had the loyalty of a dog, really. That was the problem. Or maybe it was hers. She looked out the window and saw a fox darting between parked cars — something wild and ungovernable that slipped between the cracks of the city, surviving without anyone's permission.

"I was thinking," Thomas said, "maybe we could try counseling again."

The waitress came with their wine. Elena watched the red liquid swirl in her glass, thinking about the first time she'd seen him drunk and weeping on a curb, about how she'd knelt beside him in her good dress and thought: this is someone I can save. This is someone who will let me.

She'd been right. She'd saved him, day after day, year after year, until there was nothing left of the person she'd been before.

Outside, the fox paused, looking back at them through the glass, bright eyes unreadable, before vanishing into the dark.

"Thomas," she said, setting her glass down. "I don't think there's anything left to save."

He reached across the table, his fingers finding hers. She didn't pull away. She just let him hold her hand, the way she'd let him hold her heart — carefully, desperately, and ultimately, not enough.