What We Leave Behind
The apartment smelled of stale coffee and the **spinach** artichoke dip Sarah used to make on Friday nights. Six months after she left, Greg still couldn't bring himself to clean out the refrigerator compartment where she kept her specialty ingredients. It was pathetic, really—a forty-three-year-old man clinging to a tub of fermented dip like it was some kind of sacred relic.
He stood in the bedroom, holding her favorite **hat**—that crushed velvet fedora she'd bought at a vintage shop in New Orleans during their anniversary trip. She'd worn it to his sister's wedding, to his father's funeral, to the rooftop where they'd danced until 3 AM under city lights. Now it just sat in his hands, smelling faintly of her perfume: sandalwood and jasmine.
Barnaby—her **cat**—wound between Greg's legs, purring like a small engine. The animal had stopped eating after Sarah moved out, wasting away until Greg had to force-feed him with a syringe. Now Barnaby was finally gaining weight, his coat glossy again, his appetite returned. The cat would survive. Greg wasn't so sure about himself.
His phone buzzed. Sarah.
"I'm coming by tomorrow for Barnaby," she'd said. "I finally found a place that allows pets."
Greg hadn't told her the cat had stopped eating. Hadn't told her he'd spent two thousand dollars on vet bills and medication. Hadn't told her that Barnaby was the only living thing that still looked at him like he mattered.
Outside, a neighbor's **dog** barked at something in the alley—a siren, maybe, or just the vast indifferent darkness that had taken over Greg's life since she left. He wondered if Sarah had found someone else. Someone who didn't leave dirty dishes in the sink. Someone who didn't work until midnight four nights a week. Someone whose idea of romance wasn't ordering Thai food and falling asleep on the couch.
He set the hat on the bedspread. Tomorrow, he would have to let go of something else. But not yet.
Greg sat on the floor, and Barnaby climbed into his lap, purring harder. The cat's warmth against his chest was the only thing that felt real anymore. For tonight, that was enough.