The Fox

The fox stares at Hayley from behind the shelter on the platform. Around her, people stand reading or drinking coffee. A couple argue in loud hisses.

The fox does not care.

Looking over her shoulder, Hayley crouches, hitching up her office skirt. Painfully awake, she’s desperate for a cigarette, or a drink, or a line.

The fox is small and sleek, pelt grey, copper and black like autumn. It turns one ear to the train pulling into the station.

I once saw foxes every night, thinks Hayley.

At dawn, out of her head, she’d share empty pavement with them. Crying in the dark, she’d stand and watch vixens and cubs play on garage roofs.

When she slept in the parks they’d sniff her awake, delicate snouts exploring her hair.

The foxes don’t like the new buildings, she thinks. They don’t like the new me.

Hayley remembers herself, thin and hard, spending money like water, hiding in empty houses.

Now she is fat and steady.

The platform empties, the train pulls away. The fox sits, looking at her, eyes green.

Hayley whispers: “Raynard.”

Turning, the fox pads through a hole in the fence.

Heart hammering, plunging forward into gloom, Hayley follows.