Goldfish in the Wires

She hadn't meant to keep the goldfish after Marcus left. It was supposed to be temporary—a week, maybe two, until he came back for his things. But three months later, the fish was still there, swimming in lazy circles in its glass prison on the windowsill. Its name was Spielberg, because Marcus had always fancied himself a director of their shared life, calling the shots, framing every argument like a scene he'd storyboarded in his head.

Now Spielberg floated near the surface, his orange scales dull in the morning light. His water had grown cloudy, and Sarah realized with a sudden pang of guilt that she'd forgotten to change it for two weeks. Maybe three.

She reached for the net, then stopped. Her iphone lay on the counter, screen glowing with a message from someone else—another man who wanted to take her to dinner, another possibility swimming toward her like bait. She'd been ignoring him, just as she'd been ignoring the fish, the dishes, the slow accumulation of her own neglect.

The charging cable lay coiled beside her phone, a black snake that tethered her to this room, to this life she'd stopped inhabiting. She unplugged it, watching the battery percentage drop: 87%, 86%, 85%. Like her own energy draining away, drop by drop.

Spielberg bobbed at the surface now, gasping. Sarah lifted him gently, his wet body slipping through her fingers like something unfinished, something said too late. The water in the bowl rippled as she set him down in the fresh tank she'd prepared—too little, too late, but something.

For a moment, he floated motionless. She held her breath. Then, with a sudden flick of his tail, he dove to the bottom, his orange scales catching the light, bright again.

Sarah picked up her phone. The battery was at 78%. She typed back to the man whose name she'd been forgetting: *Yes. Dinner sounds wonderful.*

And somewhere in the apartment, a cable lay unplugged on the counter, no longer tethering anything at all.