Drowning in Shallow Water

The papaya sat on Elena's desk like a small, tropical accusation. Her husband had packed it in her lunch that morning—another attempt at healthy domesticity after three years of mutual disappointment. She stared at its mottled yellow skin while her boss droned on about quarterly targets in the conference room.

The office goldfish, named Buster by someone's enthusiastic intern, swam in endless circles inside his bowl on the filing cabinet. Elena watched him through the glass wall, mesmerized by his commitment to going nowhere. At least someone in this building was honest about the futility of movement.

"You with us, Elena?" Marcus asked. The senior associate tapped his orange pen against his notepad, a nervous tic he'd developed since the restructuring began. Three rounds of layoffs, and somehow they kept promoting the men who looked most comfortable telling other people their work wasn't enough.

"Just thinking about the Johnson account," she lied, smoothly. She'd stopped feeling guilty about lying months ago. It was just another office skill, like scheduling meetings or pretending to care about team-building exercises.

At the water cooler later, she ran into Julian from design. He was refillling his bottle, looking exhausted in a way that made her chest ache with recognition.

"Heard they're eliminating another position," Julian said, too quietly. "In creative."

"Who?"

"Sarah. She's got two kids."

Elena thought of the papaya in her purse, thought of her husband asking if they should start trying soon, thought of Buster swimming his endless circles, thought of the way Marcus's orange pen had hovered over her name during the meeting. She thought of water rising slowly, incrementally, how you don't notice until you're already drowning.

"I'm sorry," she said, and meant it. "I'm really sorry."

Julien looked at her with eyes that had seen too much. "Yeah. Me too."

The goldfish died two weeks later. Nobody noticed for three days.