Memory Like Water

The goldfish circled his bowl, orange scales catching the morning light that sliced through our kitchen window. Three years we'd had him, since the night Marcus brought him home as some kind of peace offering after I found the texts on his iPhone.

"His name is Bert," Marcus had said, placing the bowl on our counter like it explained everything. "He only has a seven-second memory, you know. Maybe that's a blessing."

I'd stared at the fish, its mouth opening and closing in silent repetition, and thought: some creatures get to forget.

Now Marcus was gone again—another "emergency" at the office, though we both knew the office didn't call at 11 PM on Fridays. I stood at the counter counting out the vitamins from my amber prescription bottle. One for mood, one for sleep, one for the iron deficiency that had made my doctor frown at my blood work. The bottle promised renewal on its label, but swallowing them felt like admitting defeat.

My iPhone buzzed against the marble—Marcus's location pinging from downtown, nowhere near his office. The notification had become familiar enough that my stomach no longer dropped. The goldfish swam to the surface, waiting for food he'd forget he'd already received, and I wondered if the fish was actually lucky or just pitiful.

Then again, I thought, dropping the vitamins into my palm one by one, who was I to judge?

The fish pressed his mouth to the glass in something that looked like a kiss, and I found myself pressing my fingers to the screen where Marcus's dot pulsed. Neither of us would get what we were waiting for. But at least the fish didn't pretend otherwise.

I swallowed the vitamins dry and watched the sunlight move across the water, thinking about what stays and what goes, and how we're all just swimming in circles anyway.