Glass Bowl, Deep End

The resort pool was empty except for Elena, who floated on her back watching storm clouds gather. At forty-two, she'd finally done it—booked the solo vacation her ex-husband David had always called 'selfish.' Now she was here, consuming papaya with desperate, messy bites, juice running down her chin like she was thirteen again and sneaking fruit in the bedroom.

In the garden adjacent to the pool sat a stone fountain, home to three sluggish goldfish—orange flashes in murky water. Elena had watched them for three days, captivated by their endless circling. This morning, she'd noticed one floating at the surface, its gills barely moving.

'Stupid fish,' she muttered, swimming to the edge. 'You have the whole fountain.'

Her phone buzzed on the lounge chair—David, probably. Their divorce had been final for six months, but he still called with questions about the tax returns, the dog's vet records, whether she'd changed her Netflix password. Every notification was another lap around the bowl.

She climbed out, dripping onto the concrete, and walked to the fountain. The dying goldfish rolled slightly, its eye reflecting the gray sky. Elena remembered buying David a betta fish for his office years ago. It had lived two weeks before he forgot to feed it over a long weekend. He'd cried harder than when his mother died.

The papaya sat halved on her plate, seeds glistening like small jewels. She'd ordered it because David hated it—too musky, he'd said, like eating perfume. Now she couldn't get enough of its complicated sweetness, the way it filled her mouth with something that was almost floral, almost rotten, entirely itself.

The goldfish moved again—a weak flutter of its tail. Elena considered poking it, putting it out of its misery. Instead she watched it struggle, admiring its refusal to simply sink.

'At least you're still swimming,' she whispered, and dove back into the pool.