What We Leave Behind

The spinach had gone slimy in the crisper drawer, just like everything else between us. I stood holding the container at 2 AM, while Marcus sat on the couch, the blue light of the television flickering across his face. The cable box had been blinking 12:00 for three weeks—a small thing, really, but I'd stopped fixing small things months ago.

Outside, a fox screamed—that unearthly cry that sounds like a woman being murdered. Marcus didn't even look up from his phone.

"Did you hear that?" I asked.

"Hear what?" His voice was flat, tired.

"The fox. It's back."

"Hm."

I walked to the window and pulled back the curtain. The fox stood in our backyard, its coat brilliant orange against the dead winter grass. It was watching something. I followed its gaze to the fence line where our neighbor's cat—a haughty calico named Princess—perched, tail twitching. They regarded each other across the darkness, predator and prey locked in some ancient understanding.

"Remember when we first moved here?" I said, not turning around. "We talked about getting a cat. You wanted to name it Chairman Meow."

Marcus laughed, actually laughed. It was the first real sound I'd heard from him in weeks. "God, we were drunk."

"We were happy."

The silence stretched between us, thick and suffocating. I turned from the window. Marcus had set down his phone. His hair fell over his eyes—he needed a cut, just like everything else needed maintenance, attention, care.

"Elena—"

"The spinach is bad," I said. "Just like everything else."

"What?"

"The spinach. In the fridge. It's rotten."

He looked at me, really looked at me, for the first time in what felt like years. "We can buy more."

"That's not the point."

Outside, the fox screamed again. The cat vanished over the fence. The moment passed, as all moments do.

"I know," Marcus said softly. "I know it's not about the spinach."

I set the container on the counter. In the morning, I would pack my bags. But for now, I sat beside him on the couch and watched the cable box blink its meaningless time, counting down the hours until everything changed.