Swimming with the Fox

The goldfish circles its bowl, orange scales catching afternoon light through dusty blinds. Three seconds of memory, they say. A blessing, really. I wish I could forget her face that easily.

She was my friend — or I let myself believe she was. Three months in Vienna, drinking wine at Heurigers, laughing over shared meals. All while I was reporting her movements to Moscow, and she was feeding MI6 everything I said. We were both liars, but somewhere in the middle, I forgot what was real.

Now I'm retired in this London flat, too old for the game. The goldfish is my only companion. I call him Fox, because he's quick and slippery when I try to net him for tank cleanings. But mostly because she called me that — her sly little fox, always dodging questions, always watching from the corner of my eye.

"You swim like you're drowning," she told me once, in a hotel bathtub in Prague, bubbles on her skin, steam obscuring the ceiling. "Like you're fighting something I can't see."

I didn't answer. I couldn't. I was already drowning in the weight of what I'd have to do eventually.

Last month, I read she died. Cancer, not a bullet. Some mercy there, I suppose. I went swimming in the Thames afterward, ice-cold water shocking my lungs, trying to feel something besides this gray numbness. I swam until I couldn't breathe, until the water felt like an embrace.

Fox the fish spins in another circle. He'll never remember what I've done. He'll just keep swimming, infinitely new in each moment. I press my finger to the glass, and he darts away, startled.

Some days, I envy him the simplicity of his world. But most days, I just wish I could trade all my carefully kept secrets for three seconds of forgetfulness.