Polar Bears

The polar bears have come down off the ice, now that there’s no more ice to be had. They wander through the streets, gazing forlornly in shop windows; their cubs play disconsolately in the parks.
They monopolize the swimming pools, submerging themselves for hours at a time, watching the sunbathers and volleyball enthusiasts with a quiet, unblinking stare.
Landlords don’t like renting to them. Nothing personal, they say, it’s just that they’re hell on the facilities. Fix up the guestroom for your air-conditioning man—that’s how much you’ll be seeing him. And there’s the smell—a fishy, walrus-blubber kind of thing that’s simply impossible to get out of the carpet and drapes.
But we’re doing our best to adjust to the situation. Even the maulings have become routine—we barely slow down to look anymore. Instead we stride on by, eyes fixed on the horizon as a bear, its beautiful white fur sticky and red with blood, hunches over the convulsing body of some financial planner or software engineer. Should you look into the animal’s face at a moment like this, you will be met with a gaze of sorrowful resignation. “What did you think was going to happen?” it seems to ask. “What did you really expect?”