What We Fed Each Other

The dog had stopped eating three days ago, which Marcus took as a personal indictment. Standing in the kitchen of their too-expensive apartment, Elena watched him push wilted spinach around his own plate, the same meal the dog had refused when Marcus had tried—disastrously—to hand-feed the animal earlier that evening.

"He's just old, Marcus," Elena said, though the truth was that the dog had always disliked Marcus, had sensed something performative about his affection.

Marcus looked up, his eyes rimmed with red. "He's thirteen, Elena. That's not old. That's—"

"That's ancient for a retriever. You know this. We talked about this."

"We talked about lots of things." His voice cracked. "Remember when we said we'd never be the kind of people who stayed together for the animals?"

Elena's cat, a sleek creature named Mathilda who had appeared on their third date and never left, jumped onto the counter and batted at Marcus's wine glass. He didn't react. In five years of marriage, they had never agreed on pets, careers, or whether to bring children into a world that seemed increasingly intent on consuming itself. The dog was Marcus's unilateral purchase during his first solo victory at the firm—a celebration he'd announced by text message because she'd been at her mother's funeral.

"You went full bull in the market today," she said, changing the subject because it was safer than whatever they were actually talking about. "I saw your portfolio."

"The analyst quit. Someone had to take the position."

"You bought cattle futures, Marcus. Actual cows. You're a software engineer."

"I'm trying to build something," he said quietly. "For us. For—"

"For what?" Her voice rose. "For a family you said you didn't want? For a life we don't have?"

The dog groaned from the living room, a sound like settling floorboards.

"He's in pain," Marcus said.

"Yes," Elena said. "He is."

They looked at each other across the kitchen island, across five years of compromise and silence, across everything they'd refused to say aloud. The spinach had gone cold. Somewhere in the distance, sirens wailed—maybe fire, maybe police, maybe just the city eating itself alive again.

"Tomorrow," Marcus said.

"Tomorrow," Elena agreed.

They would call the vet in the morning. They would make the appointment together, hold the dog together, cry together. And then, separately, they would call their respective attorneys. Some endings required witnesses.

The cat knocked over the wine glass. Purple liquid spread across the counter like a bruise.