Goldfish in the Palm

The goldfish bowl sat on the railing between them, its glass curve catching the last orange light of day. Inside, Arthur swam in lazy circles, alone for the first time since Margaret had died the week before—something about water temperature, or maybe she'd just given up.

"We're not working," David said, not looking at her. His palm rested on the glass table between them, fingers splayed. A small scar ran through his lifeline—she'd traced it countless times during three years together, back when she'd believed in such things.

The cat—a wiry calico they'd rescued during their first winter—jumped onto David's lap. He didn't pet her. That was new.

Sarah felt something crack open in her chest. "Since when?"

"Does it matter?" His voice was gentle, which was worse. "You have your list. I have mine. The apartment sells next month."

Her eyes tracked to the goldfish. "What about Arthur?"

"You can have him."

"David, he's a fish."

"Then flush him. I don't care anymore." He stood up, the cat sliding to the floor with an offended mrrow. "I'm going to pack the kitchen."

She sat alone as the sky darkened, watching Arthur press his nose against the glass. How long until he forgot there had ever been another fish? How long until he forgot Margaret entirely? The scientific answer was three seconds, but she suspected grief operated on different rules for goldfish too.

An hour later, she carried the bowl downstairs and walked to the pond at the end of their street. She tipped Arthur out into dark water and watched him hang suspended for a moment—a flash of gold in the streetlamp glow—before darting downward into shadows.

She returned to an apartment that was already mostly boxes. In the kitchen, David had left a half-peeled orange on the counter, its rind spiraling on the linoleum like something unspooling.

She picked it up and ate it standing there, the juice running down her chin, not bothering to wipe it away. Some endings didn't deserve to be graceful.