Seven Second Memory

Margaret stood before the kitchen sink, watching the tap water spiral into the drain. The goldfish bowl on the windowsill caught what little light remained of the Tuesday afternoon, casting wavering shadows across the tiles where Richard's wedding ring had sat three mornings ago.

"They remember everything," she whispered to the orange fish swimming slow circles. "That's what they don't tell you."

The spinach wilted in the colander, a failed attempt at something healthy, something normal. She'd bought it on Sunday, when she still believed in new beginnings and fresh starts and the possibility that twenty-three years of marriage could be salvaged with salad and forgiveness.

Richard had packed his things while she was at yoga. He'd left a note: *I can't drown in this anymore.*

The goldfish — his anniversary gift from five years ago — swam to the surface, mouth opening and closing in silent complaint. Margaret sprinkled flakes into the bowl. They floated on the water's surface before slowly sinking, like her appetite, like her determination not to cry.

"You're supposed to have a seven-second memory," she told the fish. "I should be so lucky."

Her phone buzzed on the counter. Her sister. *Are you okay?*

Margaret stared at the spinach, thinking about how she'd planned to cook it with garlic and olive oil, how Richard had complained about her overcooking it last time. How she'd promised to do better. How she'd always promised to do better.

The water in the fish bowl reflected her face back at her — a woman she barely recognized, someone who'd spent decades accommodating and compromising and slowly disappearing.

She reached for the phone. Then stopped.

Instead, she picked up the colander of spinach, carried it to the trash, and let it fall. The leaves made a soft sound as they landed, like a sigh of relief.

Tomorrow she would call her sister. Tomorrow she would find a lawyer. Tomorrow she would figure out what came next.

Tonight, she watched the goldfish swim, and for the first time in years, she didn't remember why she was supposed to be the one who changed.