Goldfish in the Palm of Your Hand

Marla stared at the **vitamin** D supplement on her counter—the doctor said her bones were aging faster than her spirit. At forty-five, she'd expected to feel more certain about things. Instead, she felt like she was swimming in circles.

The **cat**—a Siamese she'd inherited from her mother—watched her with judging eyes from the windowsill. Marla had named him Agent after her first husband's profession, though she hadn't known about the espionage until the FBI knocked at 3 AM. Some betrayals linger like smoke in curtains.

At work, the new analyst Marcus kept finding reasons to visit her desk. His **palm** brushed hers when he handed over reports—too deliberate, too warm. She should have been flattered. Instead, she found herself studying him like she used to study suspects' girlfriends. The way he leaned in. The questions about her department's restructuring. The corporate network passwords she'd foolishly let him "borrow" that first week.

Was he a **spy** for the competitor whose bid they'd just rejected? Or was this just her damaged heart reading danger into kindness?

"You know what goldfish remember?" Marcus asked one afternoon, standing too close in the breakroom. "Every three seconds, the world is new again."

Marla looked at the office aquarium, where orange fins darted through artificial greenery. "Some of us remember too much."

"Then maybe you need a different tank," he said, and something in his voice cracked—a real thing beneath whatever game he was playing.

That night, she took her vitamins and watched Agent chase his tail in moonlight shadows. She'd be reporting Marcus to security tomorrow. The familiar ache of loneliness was preferable to the sharp edge of betrayal she knew too well. Some fish learned. Some just kept swimming into glass walls, expecting the world to change first.