Memory Like a Goldfish

Marla ate her papaya on the balcony, watching the corporate spy across the courtyard water his plants. He'd moved in three weeks ago—too perfectly timed with the data breach at her firm. The papaya was ripe, flesh the color of sunset, juice running down her chin. She wiped it away, thinking about how her husband claimed goldfish had three-second memories. A convenient philosophy for a man who kept forgetting to mention the late nights at the office.

The spy—she'd decided to call him that, though he might just be a mid-level accountant—looked up. Their eyes met across the gap between buildings. Something flickered across his face. Recognition, maybe. Or the specific wariness of someone who knows he's being watched.

Her husband's key in the lock. The sound of water running in the kitchen sink as he washed up. Marla wrapped the papaya skin in paper towels, smoothing it flat. There was something satisfying about evidence that fit neatly away.

"You're eating on the balcony again," he said, appearing in the doorway. His smile was practiced, rehearsed. "Beautiful view."

"It is," she said. "Our neighbor's quite the gardener."

"Neighbor?" His eyes shifted—microscopic, but she'd learned to read the tells. "Oh, the fellow in 4B. Nice enough. We exchanged pleasantries in the lobby yesterday."

Yesterday. But he'd claimed to be in Chicago yesterday.

The goldfish bowl on the bookshelf caught the afternoon light. Orange and white shapes swimming in endless circles.

"They remember longer than three seconds," she said, apropos of nothing. "Scientists proved it years ago."

"What?"

"Goldfish. They remember for months."

He laughed, but it was strained. "Why are you telling me this?"

She looked at the papaya skin in the trash, the water glass on the table, the spy across the way who'd just ducked into his apartment.

"Just thinking about memory," she said. "And how convenient it must be, to forget."

The silence stretched between them like water, deep and drowning. She thought about calling the man across the courtyard. Maybe he wasn't a spy at all. Maybe he was just someone who noticed things—like how often her husband's car was gone when he was supposed to be working late. Like which nights the lights stayed on in their apartment.

"Marla—" he started.

"I'm going to take a shower," she said. "Don't wait up."

She left him standing there, thinking about goldfish and secrets and how some things, once seen, couldn't be unseen. The water would run for a long time tonight.