Glass Houses

Marcus stared at the goldfish bowl on his desk, its lone inhabitant circling in endless loops. The fish had been his daughter's — she'd left it behind when she moved out last year, another thing he failed to hold onto.

"You're going to be late, Marcus."

He didn't turn. Diane's voice carried from the doorway. She'd stopped asking where he went those long evenings. Stopped touching his shoulder when he came home smelling of hotel soap and desperation.

"The pyramid scheme meeting," he said, finally. "Can't be late for the cult."

He wasn't really selling nutritional supplements anymore. Hadn't been for eight months. But the company's pyramid structure gave him something better: access to the financial records of every member above and below him. Including the state senator whose email inbox Marcus now monitored from a laptop in a different hotel each week.

A spy for the opposition party. It sounded glamorous until you actually did it. Mostly it was boredom and motel rooms and checking your daughter's Instagram to see if she was still alive.

"Your palm," Diane said.

He turned. She held out her hand, not touching him.

"What?"

"Your palm. You're rubbing it against your leg. You only do that when you're about to do something you'll regret."

Marcus looked down. His hand was clenched, the palm raw against his dress pants. She knew him better than he wanted her to.

"I'm meeting someone tonight. After the meeting."

"A woman."

"A contact."

"Same thing, isn't it?" She stepped closer, and he saw the makeup she'd started wearing again, the careful hair. "I called your mother yesterday. She said you always wanted to be important. Said you'd sell your soul if it meant someone would finally notice you."

The goldfish broke the surface, gasping.

"I'm doing this for us," Marcus said, but the words felt hollow. He was doing it because every morning he woke up terrified he'd already become nothing, and being a corporate spy for a political operation — however small-time — made him feel like he existed in the world's narrative instead of watching it from the sidelines.

Diane reached out and took his hand, turning his palm upward. Her thumb traced the lifeline.

"You're going to get caught," she said softly. "And I'm not going to be here when you do."

She walked out. Marcus stood there a long time, listening to the house settle around him, watching the goldfish circle its glass prison, wondering when he'd started believing his own lies.