The Art of Drowning
The water in the therapy office aquarium was murky today, like thoughts I couldn't quite clarify. Three goldfishâorange flashes ofèć brightnessâcircled each other in endless, meaningless loops.
'You keep coming back to him,' Dr. Aris said, not looking up from her notes. 'The man from the padel tournament.'
'Because I don't understand what I saw.' I twisted the silver ring I still wore. 'My husband, Marcoâcornudo, everyone laughed. The cuckolded husband. But he played padel with Victor that afternoon. They shook hands at the net. Victor patted Marco's shoulder.' I remembered the thick, calloused hand on my husband's shoulder. 'Like a bull marking its territory before the slaughter.'
The goldfish broke the surface, gasping.
'Maybe that's what broke me,' I said. 'Not the infidelity. We'd been dead for years. But the performance. The padel match, the drinks afterward, Victor's hand on Marco's shoulder while I watched from the balcony, three months pregnant with what I thought would finally make us whole.' I swallowed something thick and sharp. 'Marco knew. He must have known. And he still played that match. Still smiled over gin and tonics while Victor touched my knee under the table.'
I remembered the water glass in my hand that night, condensation slick on my palm. How I'd wanted to smash it. Instead, I'd taken a sip and smiled back.
'So the betrayal,' Dr. Aris said, 'wasn't the sex.'
'No.' The goldfish resumed their circles. 'It was that they made me part of the performance without my consent. That I clapped when Marco won the match. That I let Victor drive us home.' I met her eyes. 'That for three years, I swam in that tank and thought I was free.'
Outside, rain began to fall against the windows.
'I'm filing for divorce,' I said. 'Not because of Victor. Because Marco watched it happen and used it as proof of his superiorityâthat he could own me even while someone else took me.' I stood up. 'That's not marriage. That's husbandry.'
The goldfish swam on, oblivious that they could simply jump.