Riddles in the Fishbowl

Three weeks since Elena moved out, and the spinach in the crisper drawer had turned to slime. Maya stood in the kitchen at 2 AM, eating it straight from the bag, watching her roommate's goldfish swim frantic circles in its bowl on the counter.

"He's not going to make it," Sarah had said when she'd left for her sister's, and she was right. The goldfish—what was his name? Bubbles? Goldie?—wasn't swimming anymore. He was listing sideways in the murky water, gills working too hard.

Maya's phone buzzed. A text from Elena. *Can we talk?*

They'd been best friends since freshman year, through three apartments and four breakups and one abortion at twenty-three. Then Elena had started sleeping with Maya's boss at the ad agency, and suddenly every joke had a double edge, every coffee date felt like a performance. The final fight had happened right here in this kitchen. Elena had screamed that Maya was emotionally stunted, Maya had thrown a glass of water in her face.

Now the goldfish gave one last spasm and went still.

Maya stared at her own reflection in the fishbowl. There was the sphinx tattoo on her shoulder, matching the one Elena had gotten on her ankle the night they graduated. *We're mysterious,* Elena had said, drunk on cheap wine. *We ask the questions.*

But she'd stopped asking. She'd stopped listening.

She typed back: *There's nothing to say.*

The goldfish floated belly-up. In the morning she'd have to decide whether to flush him or pretend she hadn't noticed. She could give him a proper burial, say a few words about how he'd been a good fish, how he'd deserved more than a glass prison on a counter between two women who didn't know how to love each other without hurting themselves.

Instead she dropped her phone in the sink, turned on the faucet, and watched the water rise over the screen, drowning Elena's name one bubble at a time.