The Art of Drowning

The glass tank sat on my desk, a single goldfish swimming in lazy circles. Marcus called it melancholic—said it needed a friend. But Marcus had been gone for three weeks now, and the fish was the only thing that made sense.

We used to play padel every Tuesday at the club near work. Court 3, always. He'd slice the ball low, just above the ground, grinning like he'd invented the sport itself. I'd let him win most times. That's what friends do, I told myself. They let each other win.

Then came the presentation. The client loved my proposal—the water conservation project I'd spent six months designing. Marcus stood at the back, nodding, taking notes. Two days later, the partner pulled me into her office. Marcus had submitted something identical. Claimed it was his original work. Said I'd been assisting him.

I stared at him across the conference table. He wouldn't meet my eyes.

The goldfish nudged the glass, its tiny mouth opening and closing.

The apartment's pipes burst last night. Water everywhere—soaking the carpet, warping the floorboards, rising like an accusation. I stood in it, ankle-deep, thinking how appropriate it felt. How some things just keep rising until they drown you.

Marcus texted this morning: 'Padel Tuesday?'

I watched the fish, its orange scales flashing in the ambient light. It had survived three weeks in my care, longer than our friendship. Maybe longer than his integrity.

I typed back: 'Court 3. 7PM.'

The water receded eventually. Plumbers came, fans whirred, things dried out. But some damage doesn't show on the surface. Some fractures run deeper than wood, deeper than concrete.

I bought another goldfish today. Put it in the tank. They circle together now, synchronized and separate. Like the truth and whatever version Marcus tells himself. Like the game we'll play tomorrow, where the score won't matter nearly as much as what happens after.

Some games you win. Some you lose. And some—well, some you just play until you can walk away with your head above water.