Everything That Drowns

The goldfish has been floating sideways for three hours.

Maya watches it from the kitchen table, the orange shape distorted through the curved glass of its bowl. It was Julian's idea to get it — something to liven up the apartment, he'd said, something low-maintenance. That was six months ago, before the promotions and the late nights and the way he now looks at her like she's a puzzle he's already solved.

The papaya sits on the counter, its yellow skin mottled with brown. She bought it yesterday, trying to recreate something from the vacation they took to Costa Rica two years ago, when they still made each other laugh. Now it's overripe, the sweet scent cloying in the stagnant air of their Saturday morning.

"You going to flush it?" Julian asks from the doorway. He's already dressed for brunch with his colleagues — she's still in her robe.

"I thought you liked low-maintenance."

His laugh is short, dismissive. "It's a fish, Maya. It costs three dollars. Get another one."

Their dog, Buster, trots in and nudges her knee with his wet nose. He's the only one who still looks at her with something resembling love. She buried her fingers in his fur, the coarse texture grounding her. Buster was a stray they found together, back when they still rescued things instead of letting them die.

"The papaya's going bad," she says instead. "Just like everything else in here."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

She meets his eyes for the first time today. In the morning light, she sees it clearly — the way he's already gone, just hasn't moved out yet. The goldfish rolls belly-up. Buster whines, pressing against her leg.

"I mean," she says, standing up, the silk robe pooling around her, "that you can replace the fish. You can buy new papayas. But some things, once they start rotting, you can't fix them."

"Maya—"

She walks to the sink and turns on the faucet. The water rushes out, drowning whatever he was about to say. She picks up the fish bowl and carries it to the sink, watching the orange form swirl in the current, gone before it hits the drain.

Behind her, Julian's phone buzzes. Work, probably. Always work.

She turns off the water and dries her hands on a paper towel. "I'll be gone by the time you get back."

"You're being dramatic."

"I'm being finally honest." She clips Buster's leash to his collar. The dog wags his tail, sensing adventure. "The fish died, Julian. We just didn't want to notice."