Swimming in Circles

The goldfish had been swimming in the same glass bowl for twelve years, its orange scales dulling like old paint. I watched it do another lap, thinking about how I'd ended up doing the same thing—circling through the same job, the same apartment, the same patterns.

"You should come to the game tonight," Sarah had said that morning, her voice bright with the kind of optimism that used to define our friendship. "Just like old times."

I'd agreed because I couldn't remember the last time I'd said no to her. That was the problem with friendships that had survived three decades: the history outweighed the present.

The baseball stadium was already crowded when I arrived. Sarah waved from our usual seats behind home plate, wearing the team cap I'd given her for her thirtieth birthday. Five years ago. I sat down, the familiar crack of bats and roar of crowds washing over me.

"Remember when we played in college?" she asked, gesturing toward the field. "That tournament you won the championship for us?"

I nodded. I did remember. I also remembered that she'd taken credit for my hit in the yearbook article. I remembered that she'd used my name as a reference for her first job, then hired someone else. I remembered that she'd introduced me to my ex-husband at a party, knowing full well he was her type, not mine.

The first inning dragged on. Then something shifted—lightning flickered across the sky, a sudden violet streak that seemed to split the darkness gathering behind the stadium lights. The crowd murmured. Players glanced upward.

"You know," I said, my voice sounding strange to my own ears, "I've been thinking about getting a goldfish."

Sarah laughed. "Why?"

"Because sometimes I think it would be nice to just swim in circles and never have to worry about who's moving forward and who's staying behind."

The thunder came, low and distant. She turned to me, really looked at me for the first time in years. The air between us grew heavy, charged with all the things we'd never said.

"I'm sorry," she said softly, just as the sky opened up.

The rain came down in sheets, sending fans scattering toward cover. We stayed there, two middle-aged women in plastic seats, while the baseball diamond turned into a lake and the lightning struck closer now, illuminating everything we'd carefully avoided seeing.

"For what?" I asked, though I wasn't sure I wanted to know.

"For forgetting that friendship isn't about keeping score." She paused. "And for taking credit for that championship hit."

I started laughing. I couldn't help it. After all these years, all the resentment I'd carried like a stone in my chest—this was what she'd been harboring. A baseball game from twenty years ago.

"I never cared about that," I said. "I cared about the job. And David."

The rain soaked through our clothes. The goldfish was probably still swimming its endless circles in my apartment, oblivious to the way lightning could change everything in a single flash.

"I know," Sarah said, and the sadness in her voice was finally honest. "I just didn't know how to fix it."

We sat there as the storm passed, not touching, not moving, just existing together in the way we used to before the complicated years piled up between us. The game was cancelled. Players walked off the field. But for the first time in a long time, I thought maybe—just maybe—we weren't done playing yet.