The Art of Feeding Time

Marcus stood before the aquarium, shaking goldfish flakes into the water while his daughter's dog, a rescue pit bull named Buster, watched with his usual skeptical expression. The fish darted upward, mouths breaking the surface, their three-second memories perfectly suited for forgetting what they'd just eaten.

"You're lucky," Marcus said, dropping onto the sofa. "Nobody expects you to remember who screwed you over last Tuesday."

Buster rested his massive head on Marcus's knee. The dog had been his wife's concession to Marcus's midlife crisis—something alive that wouldn't demand validation or engage in workplace betrayal.

On the television, cable news pundits screamed about market volatility. Marcus had spent three hours today in a meeting where Bradley, the new VP, used the word "synergy" fourteen times while systematically dismantling the division Marcus had built from nothing. Bradley was a classic bull in the china shop of corporate America, except unlike the proverbial beast, this one broke everything intentionally.

Marcus's phone buzzed. His team group chat: "Did you hear?"

He didn't need to ask. The goldfish continued their endless loops around the tank, blissfully unaware that their world was a glass prison. Marcus had once believed his own aquarium was different—better somehow. That his boutique consultancy had been built on relationships, not transactions. But acquisitions had a way of revealing truth.

"Buster," he said, "what's the difference between a goldfish and a vice president?"

The dog thumped his tail.

"The goldfish doesn't pretend it's not swimming in its own waste."

Marcus stood, walked to the kitchen, and poured himself a drink. The cable news switched to commercials. Something about investment strategies for "uncertain times." As if there had ever been certain times.

He thought about his team. About Elena, who'd trusted him with her career trajectory. About Javier, who'd turned down Google to join this "family." Marcus had fed them the same flakes he was swallowing now—stories about culture and vision and long-term thinking. All bull.

The goldfish surfaced again, their mouths opening and closing in silent supplication.

"At least," Marcus said, setting his glass down, "I know what I am."

He picked up his phone and typed into the group chat: "I'm handling it. Don't worry."

Some lies were necessary. Some were just habit.

Buster whined, pressing his warm side against Marcus's leg. The dog, at least, had never pretended to be anything other than exactly what he was: hungry, affectionate, occasionally destructive, but never calculating.

Marcus returned to the tank and sprinkled more flakes. The fish would eat again, forget again, swim again. Maybe there was wisdom in that. Or maybe just survival.

"We're all just fish," he said. "Some of us just have bigger tanks."

The goldfish didn't disagree. Buster let out a soft huff. And somewhere in the distance, sirens wailed like a warning nobody would remember three seconds later.