Custody of the Fish

The third week of October brought the lightning storm, the kind that makes you wonder about fate and bad timing. Maria stood in her doorway, rain plastering her hair to her face, holding a small plastic bag with a goldfish inside.

"You take him," Marcus said, not meeting her eyes. "I'm never home."

The goldfish—ironically named Captain after their ill-fated first date at a baseball game—swam in lazy circles. Maria remembered that night clearly: the eighth inning stretch, the way Marcus smelled like cheap beer and hope, the collective roar of the crowd when someone hit a home run. They'd shared cotton candy and talked about their respective divorces, both fresh and stinging.

"It's just a fish," she said now, though her throat felt tight. "And we're not doing this again. We agreed."

They'd gone to counseling, tried the vitamin regimen the therapist recommended—D for depression, B12 for energy, Omega-3 for heart health. Maria still had the pill organizer in her kitchen cabinet, each compartment a tiny coffin for their failed attempts at being well together.

"You kept the plant," Marcus pointed out.

"The ficus doesn't need feeding twice a day."

Captain bobbed at the surface of his bag, mouth opening and closing in silent judgment. Behind Marcus, in the apartment they'd never fully moved into together, she could see the box of her things by the door. Books, a coffee mug, the spare toothbrush. Six months of relationship, reduced to cardboard and plastic.

"You know," Maria said, shifting the fish to her other hand, "my mother always said pets were practice for kids. We can't even keep a goldfish alive between us."

Marcus laughed, short and bitter. "Your mother also said you shouldn't date a man who still plays baseball in a recreational league at thirty-eight."

"She didn't say that."

"She implied it. That time she came over and saw all our jerseys hanging in the closet."

Lightning fractured the sky again, white and sudden. For a moment, the apartment hallway was bright as day. Maria saw everything: Marcus's tired eyes, the small patch of mildew on the ceiling they'd meant to fix, the way his hands hung loose at his sides—hands that had held her in bed every Sunday morning for five months.

"Take the fish," she said. "You're right. You're home more than I am."

Marcus looked at the bag, then at her. "Maria—"

"No. It's fine. It's just—it's fine."

He took the bag. Their fingers didn't touch. Outside, thunder rumbled low and distant, like the world was settling into something heavy and final.

"Good game Sunday," she said, turning toward the stairs.

"We lost."

"I know." She kept walking. "I was there."