Goldfish Season

The first time Marcus left, I found myself at the pet store an hour later, staring into a tank of comet goldfish. Something about their endless, mindless circling appealed to me — they didn't know they were trapped in a glass prison. They just kept swimming. I bought three for twelve dollars, named them after the men who'd broken my heart, and watched them die one by one over the next six months.

Now, standing in our bedroom with his half-empty suitcase gaping on the bed, I remembered that last orange from our grocery run three days ago. We'd been fighting in the produce aisle again — something about money, or intimacy, or the way I breathed too loudly when he was trying to work. He'd peeled it with angry, precise movements, tearing the rind in a spiral, and handed me a segment without meeting my eyes. The citrus scent still lingered in my memory, sharp and sweet, like forgiveness I wasn't ready to offer.

"This time it's permanent," Marcus said, not turning from where he was folding his shirts. "I mean it."

I wanted to say something profound, something that would make him stay or make him hurt or make this moment matter. But I just thought about the goldfish I'd bought yesterday, swimming in its bowl on the kitchen counter. Its name was Marcus too. The other two had already joined their predecessors in the toilet bowl, their tiny bodies spiraling away into the city's wastewater system.

"Okay," I said.

He left without touching me, without kissing me goodbye, without even looking back. The door clicked shut with such finality that I laughed out loud. That's when the smell hit me — something rotten and sweet, like oranges forgotten in the back of the crisper drawer, fermenting into wine.

I walked to the kitchen and found it on the counter: the orange he'd peeled, its segments drying into themselves, turning brown at the edges. I ate one piece, wincing at the bitterness. Then I went to the goldfish bowl and watched the last Marcus circle endlessly, his orange scales catching the morning light.

The noise started in the backyard — a crashing sound, heavy and deliberate. I thought it was Marcus coming back, until I saw the bear through the kitchen window. A black bear, massive and improbable, standing on its hind legs against the oak tree where we'd carved our initials five years ago. It was tearing down the bird feeder, its claws sharp and purposeful against the wood.

I should have been afraid. Instead, I pressed my hand against the glass, watching it destroy the thing we'd built together. The goldfish circled behind me, oblivious. The orange taste lingered on my tongue, sweet and rotten and perfect. Somewhere in the distance, a car engine started. I didn't turn to look. The bear let out a grunt, satisfied, and lumbered off into the woods with the feeder clamped in its jaw.