The Art of Forgetting

The goldfish circled its bowl, endless loops in stained water, and Mara thought how much it resembled their marriage — going nowhere, forgetting where it'd been, expecting to be fed. The baseball game flickered on the bar television, some team in orange uniforms losing badly, which felt appropriate for the evening.

'You're doing it again,' Thomas said, not looking up from his drink. 'That zombie stare where you're somewhere else.'

She should've been angry. Three years ago, she would've thrown something. Now she just felt tired. 'I'm right here, Thomas. Drinking my overpriced drink, watching men hit balls with sticks, pretending this counts as quality time.'

He laughed, bitter as cigarette smoke. 'There it is. The bull routine. The sarcasm that used to be charming.' His finger traced condensation on his glass. 'Remember when we met? That rooftop bar? You told me you loved how I didn't play games.'

'I loved how you pretended not to play games.' The orange slice in her gin and tonic had wilted, pathetic as their anniversary plans later this week. 'You're excellent at appearing sincere while calculating angles.'

'And you're skilled at emotional voyeurism — watching relationships like they're documentaries, not something you're supposed to participate in.' His eyes met hers, and for a second, she saw the man she'd fallen for. 'We're both zombies, Mara. Just animated differently.'

A bartender approached with their bill. Outside, siren wails harmonized with the crowd's roar from the television — someone must have hit a home run. In this economy, in this city, that counted as joy.

'Let's sell it,' she said suddenly. 'The condo. The goldfish. The fucking orange accent chairs we bought because they were trendy. Let's just... stop.'

Thomas studied her face for a long moment, then finished his drink. 'Okay.'

The goldfish continued its circles, oblivious to the extinction event in its midst. Some things never noticed when the world ended.