My FOX and I had pajama-bottoms kind of relationship. We were microwavers. We sucked ice cubes and put tequila in orange soda. My fox would curl into me and become very, very small. Hardly more than a handful. My fox said, I need space, then slid herself into a white cocktail dress and went out. She didn’t want to break up, she just wanted a certain kind of freedom: the freedom that was jeopardized by the very idea of discussing it with me.