Goldfish in Orange Twilight

Maya felt like a zombie most days now. The corporate espionage had sounded glamorous once—stealing trade secrets, playing a spy in the shadows—but three years of stealing patents and breaking into email accounts had hollowed her out completely. She sat on her balcony at 7 PM, an untouched whiskey beside her, watching Sam's goldfish swim lazy circles in their bowl.

"They only remember for seven seconds," Sam had said when he bought them, pouring those ridiculous orange flakes into the water. "Must be peaceful."

Maya had laughed then, but now she watched them and wondered if peace was simply forgetting everything before it could hurt.

Her iPhone buzzed on the table—another encrypted message from the agency. Another target, another life to infiltrate, another piece of someone else's soul to package and sell. She ignored it, like she'd been ignoring Sam's questions about why she came home so late, why her eyes looked like she'd been crying.

She reached for the orange in the fruit bowl, peeling it slowly, letting the citrus scent cut through the stale air of their apartment. The orange segments were bright against her gray thoughts. Sam loved oranges. He'd eat them in bed, sticky fingers and laughter, before everything between them had turned to silence.

"What are we doing?" Sam asked from the doorway. He looked tired in a way that had nothing to do with sleep.

Maya looked at the goldfish, at her phone still lighting up with messages she couldn't answer, at the orange in her hands. "I don't know how to stop," she said, and it was the most honest thing she'd said in three years.

He crossed the room, took the orange segment from her hand, ate it. "Then maybe we start somewhere small."

The goldfish swam on, oblivious to everything, and for the first time in a long time, Maya thought she might understand why that wasn't so terrible after all.