Swimming in Place

The goldfish in the lobby aquarium had been swimming the same circles for three years. Maya watched it during her lunch break, the way its orange fins fluttered against the glass, never realizing it was going nowhere. She'd been at Morrison & Sterling for seven years, and somewhere around year four, she'd become the fish.

"You're staring again," said Julian, dropping into the chair beside her. His tie was loosened, that first button of his shirt always undone. "It's just a fish, Maya."

"It's not just a fish." She didn't look away from the aquarium. "It's us."

Julian laughed, and the sound made something twist in her chest. They'd been sleeping together for six months, since the Christmas party where neither of them had intended to stay late. He was twenty-eight to her thirty-four, still young enough to believe everything was possible, still naive enough to think Morrison & Sterling was a stepping stone rather than a trap.

"I brought you something." Julian placed a takeout container on the table. "Your favorite."

She opened it. Spinach salad with warm bacon dressing, the way her mother used to make before the dementia started stealing pieces of her. The smell hit Maya like memory: bacon, vinegar, the sweetness of decay. She hadn't told Julian about her mother. She hadn't told him about the mortgage she couldn't afford, or the engagement ring hidden in her jewelry box from a man she'd left three years ago.

"You okay?" Julian's hand covered hers on the table. His skin was warm, his fingers interlaced with hers. He wanted to marry her. He'd dropped the hint twice last week, testing the waters like someone who'd never been burned.

Maya looked at their joined hands, then at her reflection in the aquarium glass. A single strand of gray hair had appeared at her temple last month, stubborn and visible. She'd plucked it, but another had emerged in its place. Time was marking her, claiming her.

"Julian," she said softly. "What would you do if you realized you were drowning?"

"I'd swim to the surface."

"What if you couldn't tell which way was up?"

The goldfish bumped its nose against the glass, its mouth opening and closing in silent repetition. Maya thought about all the things she'd never said, all the ways she'd learned to be smaller, quieter, more convenient.

She squeezed Julian's hand, then pulled away gently. "I need to tell you something."

The spinach salad sat between them, wilting in the office fluorescence. Outside, the city moved forward without them. And for the first time in years, Maya thought she might finally be ready to break the glass.