Swimming Through August

The goldfish died again. Third time this quarter, its bloated body floating near the plastic castle in the reception area tank. Margaret didn't even notice when she breezed past, her heels clicking a rhythm that matched my increasingly erratic pulse. She was holding court with the VP of Something or Other, dropping baseball metaphors like they were going out of style. 'We need to step up to the plate,' she trilled, her voice sugary with ambition. 'Really knock it out of the park this quarter.' I'd been at the firm for seven years, long enough to know that nobody actually knew what sport we were playing, only that we were losing.

My phone buzzed. David again. 'Still on for dinner?' The text sat there like an accusation. We'd been swimming in the same toxic current for three years, two professionals drowning in mortgage payments and mutual disappointment. I remember when we met – August, three years ago, eating orange slices at the beach. The juice had run down his chin, sticky and sweet, and I'd thought: this is it. This is the moment everything changes. I wasn't wrong, exactly. Just naive about the direction of that change.

The office goldfish replacement service arrived at noon. A new fish, identical to the old one, already forgetting whatever meager existence its predecessor had endured. Corporate memory reset, institutional continuity maintained through carefully curated ignorance. I watched the delivery guy – college student, tired eyes, too-thin wrists – and wondered if Margaret had ever been someone like him, before the job hollowed her out like a pumpkin.

'Dr. Richardson?' The intern stood in my doorway, clutching a folder. 'The data you asked for?' I'd forgotten I'd asked for anything. The goldfish memory was contagious. 'Right,' I said, taking the papers. 'Thank you.' But I was already thinking about the pool at the gym, how the water pressed against my skin when I swam laps, the only time my mind went quiet. Thirty minutes of blue, chlorine, measured breath. Sometimes I imagined I could keep swimming forever, just keep going until I hit some other shore where the clock didn't exist.

That evening, I sat across from David, pushing orange chicken around my takeout container. 'I got a job offer,' he said. 'Seattle.' The words settled between us like dust. 'That's... that's great,' I heard myself say, because that's what good partners say. They don't say: What about us? What about the mortgage? What about the orange-stained August when we promised we'd figure this out together?

Later that night, I texted Margaret: 'Resignation effective tomorrow.' Then I stripped down to my swimsuit and walked to the 24-hour gym. The pool was empty, the water perfectly still. I dove in, and for the first time in years, I didn't count the laps. I just swam.