What We Leave Behind

Sarah sat at the corner table of the bistro, pushing spinach leaves around her plate with her fork. She hadn't touched her phone in twenty minutes — a personal record since the breakup. Her iPhone lay face-down on the table, dark and silent, like a dead creature she couldn't bring herself to bury.

She'd cut her hair yesterday. Twelve inches gone, donated to charity, leaving her with a sharp, angular bob that felt like armor against a world that had suddenly become strange. Her stylist had asked if she was sure. She wasn't.

A flash of orange caught her eye through the window — a fox trotting down the rainy sidewalk, impossibly wild in this city of concrete and glass. It paused, turned its head, and looked straight at her through the glass, its eyes ancient and knowing. Then it melted into the shadows between buildings.

Sarah's chest tightened. She'd seen Tom's dog, that ancient golden retriever, in the park this morning. The same park where he'd said he needed space, whatever that meant. The dog had recognized her, tail thumping hopefully against the bench, and she'd had to turn away before she started crying in front of strangers and pets alike.

She looked down at her uneaten lunch, at the spinach leaves that now seemed to form the shape of a clock face. Time was running out. The offer from London sat in her email, unopened. A fresh start or another flight? She pressed her palms against the table, feeling its cool stability.

The fox appeared again on the sidewalk, this time with something in its mouth — a child's lost mitten, bright blue against the rain-darkened street. It paused, looked directly at her through the glass one more time, then vanished into an alley with its prize.

Some things get taken. Some things get left behind. Sarah picked up her fork, finally took a bite of spinach, and reached for her phone. The London offer could wait until tomorrow. Some decisions needed to be made in the daylight.