Goldfish Season

Maya lay by the resort pool, cocktail umbrella wilting in her papaya margarita, watching the man three chairs over. He looked like her old boss from the software company that laid her off three months ago. Same expensive watch, same posture that suggested constant mild irritation.

She'd been taking her daily vitamin D supplement with religious devotion since the doctor said her levels were catastrophic—normal for a corporate lawyer who hadn't seen sunlight since 2019, he'd joked. She hadn't found it funny.

The man's phone buzzed. He ignored it.

In the garden behind them, something was eating the papaya fruits at night. The staff couldn't figure out what. Maya found herself absurdly invested in this mystery. It was the most interesting thing happening in her life.

"You're staring," the man said, not looking up from his tablet. His voice was exactly the same. Rich. Annoyed.

"Sorry. You look like someone I used to work with."

"I get that a lot."

"Did you lay people off?"

"Now why would you assume that?"

Maya shrugged, feeling the old familiar anger bloom in her chest like heartburn. "Just a vibe."

He finally looked at her. "I did. Six hundred people last December. If you're one of them, I apologize. It wasn't personal. It was necessary."

"Necessary."

"The company was bleeding. We did what we had to do."

Maya thought about the goldfish bowl in her apartment, how her ex-boyfriend had left it behind when he moved out. How she'd forgotten to feed them for two weeks during her unemployment spiral. How three had died before she noticed. The fourth—orange, the color of hope—still swam in desperate circles.

"You know how goldfish have a three-second memory?" she said. "That's a myth. They remember for months. They can recognize faces."

The man raised an eyebrow. "Is that so."

"They just keep swimming because they're trapped in a bowl and there's nowhere else to go. Not because they forgot. Because they're hopeful something will change."

Something shifted in his expression. For the first time, he looked tired. Really, profoundly tired.

"I haven't slept through the night since January," he said quietly.

Maya's phone buzzed with a rejection email. Again.

"The papaya thief came back last night," she offered. "The staff found tracks. They think it's a raccoon."

He actually smiled. Just a little. "A raccoon with expensive taste."

They sat in silence as the pool water rippled in the artificial breeze, both of them swimming in circles, both of them remembering everything, both of them pretending not to.

"I'm Richard," he said.

"Maya."

"Maya. Would you like another drink?"

She would. She absolutely would.