Goldfish in the Palm

The bar at the Marina del Rey had palm fronds etched into the frosted glass — Victor's idea, of course. He always needed everything to scream success, even the cheap details.

"You're not going to believe what I'm sitting on," Victor said, sliding a tumbler of whiskey across the table. "A bull market in lithium. Chile, Bolivia, it's all happening."

I looked at my old friend and wondered when the warmth had left his eyes. Maybe when he'd made his first million. Maybe when Sarah left him. Maybe when he stopped calling.

"I came to talk about Mom's house, Vic. The estate."

"Always so practical." He gestured to the bartender for another round. "That's why you never made it big, Danny. You can't see the bull when it's charging right at you."

Outside, real palm trees caught the last light of the California sun. Inside, I felt something sour rise in my throat.

"You borrowed against her house three times, Victor. The bank's calling me."

"Investments! They all panned out, mostly." His phone buzzed. He checked it, then me. "I'm meeting someone. Important client."

I remembered when we were twelve, walking to the pet store with five dollars between us, buying that goldfish we named Captain because we thought he could steer his bowl. We swore we'd be partners forever, splitting everything right down the middle. We buried Captain in the park when he died from overfeeding — our guilt, our excess.

"I'm not signing the loan extension, Victor."

His face hardened. "After everything I've done for you. Who got you that first job? Who—"

"Who stole my girlfriend? Who blamed me when you got fired?" I stood up. "Some partnership."

He grabbed my wrist — palm against palm, the old secret handshake from seventh grade. His grip was sweaty, desperate.

"I'll make it up to you, Danny. I always do. Just this one last—"

"There is no last time with you." I pulled away. "There's just the next time."

Outside, the air smelled of salt and exhaust. I looked back through the window. Victor was already checking his phone, alone at the table for two. Somewhere in a dark apartment, a tank of expensive fish swam in circles, forgetting everything every thirty seconds.

I got in my car and drove toward the house where Mom's goldfish still lived, unknowing, in a bowl by the window. She'd had them for six years, long after the doctors said she wouldn't remember us anymore.

Some fish live longer than others. Some friendships should have died with the childhood that birthed them.