Small Circles

Maya hadn't seen Elena in three years—not since the funeral, not since the argument about the pyramid scheme that had consumed both their savings and whatever remained of their friendship. So when Elena's name appeared on her phone, Maya almost didn't answer.

"Your mother's goldfish," Elena said without preamble. "It's still alive. I'm moving, and I can't take it."

Maya touched the scarf covering her head. The chemotherapy had ended two months ago, but her hair was just now returning—a soft, dark fuzz that made her feel like an alien in her own body. "You're calling me about a fish?"

"It's been fifteen years, Maya. That fish survived your mother, the apartment flood, and my divorce. It deserves better than a flush down the toilet."

So Maya found herself at Elena's door, carrying an empty pickle jar. The apartment was nearly stripped bare, boxes stacked like pyramids against the walls—a hierarchical system of belongings sorted by importance. Maya wondered which box contained the vitamins Elena had tried to sell her, the ones that were supposed to cure anything if you just recruited three people beneath you.

Elena's hair was different now—short, practical, dyed a severe chestnut. She looked older, tired, the manic energy that had once made her brilliant and unbearable softened into something approaching peace.

"The cancer," Elena said, gesturing at Maya's scarf. "I wanted to come. I didn't know what to say."

"There's nothing to say," Maya replied. "It's done. I'm here."

The goldfish swam in lazy circles on the counter, its scales dull with age. Fifteen years. Maya remembered winning it at a carnival, the summer she turned twelve, the summer her mother first got sick. A consolation prize, really—something small and living that couldn't leave her.

"I missed you," Elena said quietly. "Even when I hated you for being right about everything, I missed you."

Maya looked at the fish, at the empty apartment, at the woman who had once been her best friend before money and betrayal and life got in the way. "You could have called."

"I know. I was ashamed." Elena laughed softly. "Remember when we were kids and we thought the biggest problem we'd face was whether goldfish really had three-second memories? We thought if we forgot things fast enough, nothing could hurt us."

Maya picked up the jar. The fish swam to the glass, its mouth opening and closing in silent bubbles.

"They don't, you know," Maya said. "Forget that fast. They remember. They just keep swimming anyway."

Elena nodded. "Can I come see you next week? Bring the fish some proper food?"

Maya's fingers found the soft hair at her temples. "Yes. Bring wine instead."

The goldfish swam in its small circle, and for the first time in years, Maya didn't feel like she was swimming alone.