Where the Bull Breaks

The gallery lights hummed at a frequency that made Miranda's teeth ache. She stood before the canvas—an explosion of orange that reminded her of sunset over the interstate, the way light fractured through exhaust and regret.

"It's called 'Bull Market,'" the dealer said, too close to her ear. "The artist meant it as commentary on—"

"I know what it means," Miranda cut in. She'd been sleeping with the artist for three months. She knew exactly what it meant, and it wasn't commentary.

Her phone buzzed. David, asking if she'd signed the divorce papers yet. The bull in the painting stared back at her—eyes like wounds, horns curved into question marks. Miranda had always hated that painting. She'd hated it when Elias first showed it to her in his studio, surrounded by the smell of turpentine and takeout Thai. She'd hated it when he told her it was about her—how she charged through everything, how she never looked back.

"My husband," she started, then corrected herself. "My soon-to-be ex-husband collects taxidermy. He has a bear in his study. Black bear, standing upright like it's waiting for a bus." She laughed, but it came out jagged. "He bought it the year I stopped asking him where he'd been.

The dealer nodded, practiced sympathy.

"I always thought," Miranda continued, "that if I were clever enough—if I were sly, like a fox—I could have made him love me again. But love isn't about being clever, is it?"

She bought the painting anyway. Three months later, when Elias left her for a performance artist who made sculptures out of cigarette butts, she hung it in her bedroom. The bull watched her sleep, its orange halo burning against the darkness, saying nothing at all.

Some mornings, she swore it was laughing at her.