Goldfish in the Fountain

The corporate retreat was Elena's idea of personal hell. A sprawling resort in Palm Springs, where executives pretended to bond over trust falls and open bars, while secretly calculating who would survive the next round of layoffs.

She found herself alone by the courtyard fountain at midnight, nursing a gin and tonic she'd spiked with something from her pocket. The fountain was teeming with goldfish — dozens of them, orange and white, darting through the murky water in endless, pointless circles.

"They're supposed to be lucky," said a voice behind her.

Elena turned. David from Accounting. The one with the wandering hands and the dead wife everyone whispered about. He wasn't wearing his jacket anymore, just a wrinkled dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up.

"The goldfish," he said, gesturing with a drink of his own. "Corporate bought them for the fountain. Some feng shui consultant said they'd bring prosperity."

Elena laughed, a sound that came out harsher than she intended. "Prosperity. Right. That's why they're planning to cut twenty percent of staff next quarter."

David's expression didn't change. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small velvet pouch. "You should be careful." He stepped closer. "The way you drink. The way you look at people." He took her hand, turned her **palm** upward. "You have the same lines my wife did. Before she—" He stopped.

"Before she what?" Elena pulled her hand away, suddenly cold.

"Before she started sleeping with her boss."

The silence stretched between them, heavy and suffocating.

"I'm not like her," Elena said, but her voice wavered.

"Aren't you?" David set his drink on the fountain rim. "I saw you. Tonight. With Marcus. Behind the banquet hall." He gestured vaguely toward his own head. "You had something in your teeth. **Spinach**, from the appetizers. I thought about telling you."

Elena's face burned. She remembered the moment — Marcus's hand on her waist, his breath hot against her ear, whispering promises about promotions and New York and leaving their spouses. She'd felt powerful then. Desired.

Now she just felt sick.

"Why didn't you?" she asked.

David picked up his drink, swirled it. "Because I wanted to see how long it would take before someone else noticed. Or if you'd figure it out yourself."

He reached into his pocket again, pulled out a small feeder **hat** — a ridiculous plastic thing meant to hold food, the kind people put on their pets for photos. He dangled it over the fountain, watching the goldfish rise to the surface, mouths opening and closing in silent desperation.

"They'll eat anything," he said softly. "Even when they're not hungry. Even when it's bad for them."

Elena thought about Marcus's promises, about the way he looked at her like she was something to consume. About her own husband, home alone with their sleeping children, probably wondering why she hadn't called.

"David," she started, but she didn't know what to say.

"Go inside," he said, not looking at her. "Get some sleep. Tomorrow's the team-building workshop. You'll want to be sharp for the trust falls."

Elena left him there with the goldfish. In her room, she brushed her teeth until her gums bled, scrubbing away the spinach, the gin, the taste of wrongness. When her phone buzzed with a text from Marcus — *Room 214. Come hungry.* — she turned it off and watched the screen go dark.

Outside her window, somewhere in the courtyard fountain, the goldfish swam in circles, waiting for food that would never come.