What We Feed

The cat watched from the windowsill—those golden eyes judging everything, seeing nothing. Sarah had inherited Mochi from her mother, along with this apartment and the particular brand of loneliness that comes with being forty-two and suddenly single. Not divorced. Just suddenly, finally done.

"He's a good dog," Mark had insisted three hours ago, holding out the phone with that photo of his Labrador, Buster, wearing a ridiculous birthday hat. "The kids love him."

"I'm sure they do," Sarah had said, pouring wine that was too expensive for a Tuesday. "I'm sure the dog is perfect."

The corporate performance review had gone similarly. "Bull market, Sarah. Bullshit. Whatever you want to call it—your numbers are exceptional." Her boss had leaned in too close, smelling of whiskey and desperation. "But we need you to be more of a team player."

She'd wanted to ask: since when did being a team player mean swallowing bull with a smile? Since when did being a woman in this industry mean having to choose between being respected and being liked?

Mochi jumped down, walked to her empty bowl, and meowed. The cat knew what she wanted. Sarah envied her.

Her phone lit up again. Mark: "Can we talk?"

She thought about the dog photos, the stories about Buster's antics, how Mark had used that animal as a shield, a distraction, a way to avoid saying what actually mattered. How he'd never asked about her day, her grief, her growing certainty that something fundamental had calcified between them years ago.

Sarah deleted the text. Then she deleted his number.

The cat rubbed against her ankle, purring like a small engine of forgiveness. Sarah scooped her up, burying her face in soft fur that smelled of sunlight and indifference. Tomorrow she'd quit her job. Tomorrow she'd figure out what came after this. Tonight, she would just exist.

Some truths, she realized, were like animals: they only stayed if you stopped trying to own them.