Electric Fish

The goldfish had been dead for three days before Marco finally noticed. It floated near the top of the bowl, its orange scales catching the afternoon light—like a tiny, suspended sun.

"You forgot to feed it again," Elena said from the doorway, her palm pressed flat against the doorframe. She'd been doing that a lot lately: touching things as if to reassure herself they were still there. The wall. The furniture. Him.

"I didn't forget. I was... busy." Marco ran a hand through his hair, still damp from his evening jog. Running was the only thing that quieted his mind lately, the rhythmic pounding of pavement drowning out everything else. Even her.

The papaya on the counter was overripe now, its skin freckled with brown spots. He'd bought it a week ago, thinking they'd eat it together like they used to, back when they still shared meals. Back when they still spoke.

Outside, lightning cracked the sky open. The storm had been building all day, the air thick and electric. Like the space between them.

"Remember when we bought that fish?" Elena asked, her voice strangely calm. "You said it would be easy. That we couldn't screw it up."

Marco thought of his running shoes by the door, the miles he'd logged this month. How he'd been running from everything but never getting anywhere. "I didn't think it would die so fast."

"Neither did I." Elena's fingers left the doorframe. She walked to the bowl, dipped her hand into the water, and let the dead fish slip into her palm. "Neither did I."