What We Feed

The bull in the driveway wasn't metaphorical. It was literal—a massive Hereford, chest heaving in the humidity, staring at Maria through the windshield as she returned from her shift at the hospital. Three years of hospice work had prepared her for many things, but not this.

Her phone buzzed. Mark.

'So,' his text read. 'I think we need to talk about us.'

Maria stared at the bull, then at the message, then at the bull again. The coincidence felt like the universe's idea of a joke. She'd been feeding Mark's emotional stalls for seven months—his insecurities, his ambivalence, his I'm-not-ready-yets—while he grazed on the sustenance she provided without ever committing to the farm.

Inside the house, her cat wound around her ankles, demanding dinner. Maria scooped him up, burying her face in his fur. Animals were honest. They didn't pretend they wanted something they couldn't name. This cat would leave if someone stopped feeding him. Mark stayed, claiming friendship while consuming intimacy, returning neither in equal measure.

The bull outside bellowed.

Maria called animal control. They'd trace it to the Henderson farm three miles up the road. The Hendersons, like everyone in this valley, were holding on by their fingernails, fences failing under the weight of mounting debt and worsening storms. The bear that had raided their garbage last summer had been easier to contain than this particular breach.

She sat on her porch, watching the bull crop her lawn—she'd spent last Sunday weeding it, another labor of love in a relationship that couldn't decide what it was growing. Mark wanted everything she offered except the label. Except the future. Except the risk.

Her palm itched with the phantom sensation of Mark's hand in hers yesterday, how he'd pulled away first.

The animal control officer arrived, a woman Maria's age with dark circles under her eyes. 'Henderson's boy left the gate open again,' she said, shaking her head. 'Third time this month. They're going to lose the farm if they can't keep track.'

Maria nodded, thinking: some losses happen in inches. Some in moments. Some in the realization that you're the only one carrying the weight of a shared future.

She typed back to Mark: 'Let's talk tomorrow. I'm done feeding what won't commit to being fed.'

The bull was herded toward the trailer. The cat wound through her legs again. Maria went inside and locked the door, finally, perfectly alone.