Palm Against the Glass

The spinach sat limp and overcooked on Elena's plate, much like their marriage. David across from her was still wearing his work clothes, the smell of someone else's perfume clinging to his collar. Not that she was accusing him of anything—she'd learned that accusations only made him retreat further into himself.

"The cat got another goldfish," David said, his voice flat. "Third one this month."

Elena looked toward the bowl on the windowsill. Orange flashes darted through murky water. "Maybe they're swimming up to the top because they're lonely."

"They're fish, Elena."

"Everything gets lonely."

The silence stretched between them, thick and suffocating. She remembered their honeymoon in Bali, how they'd gone swimming in the ocean at midnight, drunk on cheap wine and new love. David had held her hand the whole time, terrified she'd drift away. Now she sat across from him at their own kitchen table, and he couldn't meet her eyes.

"I got the promotion," he said suddenly.

"That's wonderful." She meant it. Mostly. "New York?"

"Chicago."

He said it like he was throwing a punch. Chicago. Two years minimum. Probably more. They'd talked about this, hypothetically, years ago. She'd said she'd follow him anywhere. He'd promised he'd never ask her to.

"And what do you want?" she asked quietly.

David stared at his hands. His palms were upturned on the table, open and helpless. "I don't know anymore."

Elena reached across the table and pressed her palm against his. His skin was cold. "Then figure it out. But David—you should know. I'm not swimming upstream anymore. Not for anyone."

Later that night, she found him standing by the goldfish bowl in the dark. His hand was pressed against the glass, his forehead resting against it. The fish hovered near his fingers, drawn to the warmth.

"I remember," he whispered, "when we first moved in together. You made that spinach dish. The one with garlic and cream. I ate three helpings just to make you smile."

"You hated it," she said from the doorway. "You were allergic to the cream."

"I know."

He turned to face her, and for the first time in months, she saw something real in his eyes. Fear. Regret. Love, buried so deep she'd nearly forgotten it existed.

"Chicago starts in January," he said.

"I know."

"I turned it down."

The cat wound around Elena's ankles, purring. Outside, somewhere in the distance, someone was laughing. Life continued, indifferent to their small moment of choosing.

"Why?" she asked, though she already knew.

David crossed the room and took her face in his hands. "Because I'd rather drown here with you than swim anywhere else."

The goldfish broke the surface, gasping. Elena watched its silver belly flash in the moonlight, then dive back down into the dark, mysterious depths of its small, contained world. They were all just swimming in circles, she realized. The trick was finding someone who made the circles feel like a journey worth taking.