Goldfish in the Sink

Mara found it in the bathroom sink—a single gray hair, coiled like a question mark against the white porcelain. She was thirty-four. Her mother had gone fully silver by forty. The genetics timer had started ticking.

In the kitchen, David was sautéing spinach with too much garlic, the way she hated. He'd been doing that a lot lately—small rebellions framed as forgetfulness. The smell permeated their apartment, which suddenly felt too small for two people who'd stopped speaking in anything other than logistics and grievances.

"Something died in here," she said, leaning against the doorframe.

"It's healthy, Mara. You're always talking about eating better."

"I'm talking about the fish, David."

The goldfish—Bubbles, because they'd been twenty-three and clever when they bought it—swam in sluggish circles in its bowl on the windowsill. Seven years. The pet store had said six months, tops. Now it was the oldest thing in their life together, older than their marriage, older than her masters degree, older than this suffocating apartment they'd signed a five-year lease on last month.

David finally looked at her. Really looked. "What?"

"I found a gray hair."

He set down the wooden spoon. The spinach sputtered in the pan. "Okay. That happens."

"Do you still want this?" she asked. "Any of this?"

The goldfish surfaced, mouth opening and closing in silent repetition.

"I don't know," David said. "I really don't know."

Mara nodded. She'd known. Had known for months, really. The spinach kept burning. The gray hair was still in the sink. Some things, once seen, couldn't be unseen.

"Turn off the stove," she said. "Please."

He did. And for the first time in a long time, the kitchen was quiet. Not the comfortable kind.