Still Life with Fish

Margaret watched the goldfish circle its bowl, endless loops in tepid water, and thought: this is us. Seven years of marriage reduced to gills and glass.

"The organic spinach is surprisingly fresh," David said, cutting into his salmon. He always talked about food quality at parties—a safe topic, nothing too real.

She nodded, not hearing him. In the kitchen earlier, she'd pressed her palms against the cold marble counter and exhaled until her lungs burned. That's when she'd decided: tonight, she'd tell him. No more circling.

"The water service is excellent," someone said—David's boss, maybe. Margaret's wineglass sat empty. She'd stopped drinking hours ago, but no one noticed. They never noticed anything anymore.

"We need to talk," she whispered, leaning toward him.

David's fork paused mid-air. "Not here."

"Then where? We've been saying 'not here' for six months."

The goldfish bumped its nose against glass, mouth opening and closing in silent repetition.

"Tomorrow," he said, already turning back to his boss. "Let's just enjoy tonight."

Margaret stood up. Her chair scraped loudly against the floor. The conversation at the table dipped, then resumed around her absence.

She walked to the kitchen, poured herself a glass of water from the tap, and stared out the dark window at their reflection: two people still married, still occupying space together, still pretending.

The goldfish had stopped swimming. It floated near the top, belly up.

She returned to the table and sat down. "You're right," she said. "Let's enjoy tonight."

But as she lifted her wineglass, she noticed her hand was shaking, and somewhere deep inside, something—finally—began to break apart.