Custody of Memory

The goldfish circled its bowl, oblivious to the carnage of our living room. Marcus had already claimed the couch, the espresso machine, and most of the records. I was left with the mismatched mugs and this fish — a neon-orange comet we'd won at a carnival three years ago, back when we still believed in cheap omens.

"You take Buster," Marcus said, gesturing to the dog sprawled across his half-vacated suitcase. Buster lifted his head, thumped his tail once, then resumed his nap. "He likes you better anyway."

"Because I actually walk him."

"Because you're the one who wanted a dog in the first place."

It was an old argument, worn smooth like river stones. We'd been having it since the night we got drunk in Cairo and I dragged him to see the Sphinx at dawn. He'd complained about the cold, the early hour, the tourists. I'd told him he was missing the point — some things matter because they're ancient, because they've endured. He'd said endurance was overrated.

The Great Pyramid rose behind the Sphinx's limestone shoulders, and I'd wondered aloud about the workers who'd built it. Did they love their spouses? Did they argue about goldfish and dogs and whose turn it was to do the dishes? Marcus had kissed me then, probably to shut me up. It worked.

Now, Buster whined softly, sensing the finality in our movements. The goldfish continued its endless orbit, a tiny orange planet in a glass universe. I thought about what Marcus had said last night, after too much whiskey: that we'd built something together, but the foundation was wrong. We were a pyramid with a weak base — impressive from a distance, hollow inside.

"Fine," I said. "I'll take the dog. You keep the Netflix password."

"Deal."

He zipped his suitcase. The sound was terrible, like teeth chattering. Buster stood up, stretched, and walked over to me, pressing his warm flank against my leg. I buried my fingers in his fur, trying to remember why I'd ever thought love was enough.

"You know," Marcus said at the door, "that fish probably won't last the month."

"Probably not," I said. "But he's mine now."

He left. The goldfish swam on. Buster sighed, settled onto his bed, and closed his eyes. Somewhere in Egypt, the Sphinx watched the sun rise over three thousand years of human heartbreak, entirely unmoved.