Taking the Bull by the Tail

The goldfish circled his bowl, endless laps in water clouded by my neglect. Richard's last gift before he walked out—a living thing that depended on me, a responsibility I hadn't asked for and couldn't quite bring myself to discard.

"You're playing like shit, Elena."

Marcus's voice cut through the padel court, sharp as the ball that ricocheted off the back wall. I'd been missing shots all morning, my mind still on the kitchen counter, on that glass bowl and the creature suspended inside it, on Richard's text last night: *Can I come get the rest of my things?*

Three weeks. He'd been gone three weeks, and I was still swimming through the wreckage of our marriage, drowning in paperwork and explanations to friends who'd already chosen sides. Marcus, my business partner of seven years, had defaulted to *Team Elena*—but mostly, I suspected, because he wanted me focused on work.

"Focus," Marcus said, slamming a ball toward me. "Take the bull by the horns. That's your problem. Always has been."

The bull. Richard used to say that too—usually when he wanted me to confront someone, to demand what I was owed, to stop being so goddamn accommodating. I'd taken the bull by the horns once, when I finally told him to leave. I'd felt strong then. Now I just felt hollowed out.

My phone buzzed on the bench. Richard again: *I'm outside.*

I lowered my racket. "I have to go."

Marcus's face fell. "We're not done here. The Lawson proposal—"

"—can wait."

The walk home took ten minutes. Richard stood on the sidewalk, looking like someone I used to know. He didn't want his things. He wanted to know if I'd give us another chance. He said he'd been doing a lot of thinking, about the bull and the horns, about his own stubbornness, about how he'd taken me for granted.

Inside, the goldfish swam to the surface, mouth opening and closing in silent demand. I dropped food into the bowl, watched flakes spiral down like snow in a paperweight.

"He'll die without proper care," Richard said, gesturing to the fish. "Just like we almost did."

I looked at the fish, then at Richard, then at my own hands—hands that had held a racket this morning, that had typed emails and fed a creature I'd never wanted, that had learned, in three short weeks, how to keep myself alive.

"No," I said. "I've learned how to swim."

He nodded once, turned, and walked away. The goldfish continued his endless circles, and for the first time, so did I.