Tethered

The goldfish circled his bowl, a comet of orange in the murky water. Marcus watched him—Arthur, Sarah had named him, though she'd been the one to buy him on impulse from a booth at Saturday Market. "He needs a friend," she'd said, "something that'll outlast us."

That was six months ago. Now Sarah was gone, moved to Portland with some guy who brewed craft coffee and owned more than three sweaters. Marcus was left with the cat—a hostile calico named Miso who glared at him from atop the refrigerator—and Arthur, swimming his endless laps in the kitchen corner.

The coaxial cable lay coiled on the counter like a black snake, disconnected since the day she left. They'd argued about cable TV of all things, about the $89.99 monthly bill for channels neither watched. She'd called it wasteful; he'd called it their Friday ritual. Now the screen stayed dark, and Marcus found himself staring at it anyway, mesmerizing himself with nothing.

Miso jumped down and padded to Arthur's bowl. She'd never tried to eat him—not once in three years—but she'd sit there for hours, tail twitching, watching him swim through his private universe. Sometimes Marcus wondered what she saw. Whether she envied him his contained world, his clear purpose, his complete lack of awareness that anything existed beyond his glass walls.

"You and me both," he whispered.

The cat turned, yellow eyes narrowing, and Marcus realized he'd said it aloud. Heat crept up his neck—the indignity of confessing to a cat who tolerated him at best, who still waited by the door some nights, expecting different footsteps.

He picked up the cable. Its end was frayed where Arthur had gnawed it once, a tiny rebellion Marcus hadn't mentioned to Sarah. The cable company charged a fee for damaged equipment. She'd have made him pay it.

Marcus's thumb found the rough patch of exposed wire. He could call and reconnect service. He could leave the cable coiled and dark. He could dump Arthur in the toilet—no, he couldn't, though he'd caught himself thinking it in his weaker moments, watching the fish grow lethargic in his unchanged water.

Instead, he filled a glass with tap water and poured it into the bowl. Arthur darted to the surface, mouth opening and closing in silent gratitude or accusation. Marcus couldn't tell which anymore.

The cable remained coiled. Miso resumed her vigil. Somewhere in the apartment, a phone buzzed with a notification he didn't check. The goldfish swam on, oblivious and eternal, and Marcus stood in the kitchen of his half-empty life, tethered to nothing at all.