Memory's Aquarium

The goldfish circled his bowl endlessly, a forgotten orange comma in Julia's studio apartment. He'd been Mark's idea—a test run for responsibility, he'd called it, six months before Mark stopped calling entirely. Now the fish just reminded her of promises that dissolved like fish food in water.

Julia ran her hands through her hair, newly chopped to chin length. The stylist had called it empowering, a fresh start. But catching her reflection in the fish bowl's glass curve, she looked like a stranger. Mark had loved her hair long. He'd wrapped it around his wrist like a silk bracelet when they lay tangled in sheets that smelled like papaya and coconut—his vacation fantasy, her expensive shampoo.

The cat, a calico she'd rescued to spite her mother's allergies, jumped onto the windowsill. Her neighbor Tom called her Fox for her russet patches and cunning escape artist tendencies. Fox watched Julia watch the fish, yellow eyes unimpressed by the performance.

"We're both orphans now," Julia told the cat.

Fox meowed, unimpressed by melodrama.

Tomorrow, Julia would sell the remaining papaya-scented conditioner. She'd repaint the walls. She'd rehome the fish to her sister's kids, who'd name it something ridiculous like Bubbles. But tonight, she sat on her futon, surrounded by the ghosts of domesticity, watching an orange fish swim his solitary laps.

Mark's parting words still stung: *You're too much work, Jules. Always have been.*

Like goldfish were so easy.

She glanced at her phone. No new notifications. Of course not. The papaya shampoo bottle sat on the bathroom counter, half-empty, mocking her. Six months of expensive fruit-scented optimism, down the drain.

The cat jumped down, tail twitching with fox-like precision, and headbutted Julia's knee. She scratched behind Fox's ears, the one reliable affection in her life.

"We're going to be okay," she whispered, not sure which of them she was trying to convince.

The goldfish swam on, oblivious to the significance of his endless circles. Julia turned off the lamp. In the morning, she'd call her sister. In the morning, she'd start over. Tonight, she'd just let herself miss what was gone.