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“I’m not a vixen,” Eleanor whispered one frost-clear morning. “I don’t eat rodents.”

The fox tilted its head, unimpressed.

“You’re jealous,” Eleanor laughed, startled. The fox flicked an ear and turned away with immense dignity, but not before Eleanor saw it – a softness in the honey-colored eyes. A wanting. “I’m not a vixen,” Eleanor whispered one frost-clear

Her husband, Thomas, had left three years ago for a woman who sold real estate and wore heels in the grocery store. Eleanor had stayed, tending the gnarled trees he’d planted on their first anniversary. Now the trees were bitter and the loan was due, and Eleanor spent her evenings drinking cheap wine on a splintered porch swing. “I’m not a vixen