The Art of Holding On

The goldfish swam in frantic circles, its orange scales catching the light from the balcony doors. Elena watched it from the bed, thinking how like her marriage it had become—contained, transparent, endlessly repeating the same patterns.

"They only remember seven seconds at a time," Marcus said, not looking up from his iphone. The blue light illuminated his face in the darkness. "That's why they don't get bored. Every loop is new."

Elena turned away, pressing her palm against the cool glass of the balcony door. Outside, the palm trees bent against the wind, their fronds like torn flags surrendering to a storm they couldn't outrun. This was supposed to be their second honeymoon—Cartagena, Colombia, rekindling what they'd lost somewhere between mortgage payments and late nights at the office.

Instead, Marcus was answering emails.

"Remember when we played baseball that summer?" she asked suddenly. "In the park behind your mother's house? You hit that home run and broke the old lady's window."

Marcus finally looked up. "We were twenty-three, Elena. We couldn't afford to fix the window. We ate ramen for a month."

"We were happy."

"We were broke and terrified." He set down the iphone. "What do you want from me? I'm trying to save us a future, and you're stuck in some glorified past that never existed."

The goldfish rose to the surface, mouth opening and closing in silent desperation.

"I want you to be here," she said. "Not physically here. Actually here. In this room. With me. Not waiting for the next notification, the next crisis, the next thing that pulls you away."

Marcus stood up and walked to the balcony, standing behind her. She could see his reflection in the glass—tired, softened at the edges, still the man she'd loved for eleven years but somehow also a stranger.

"My dad taught me to hold a baseball bat when I was six," he said quietly. "He said, 'Don't grip it too tight, son. If you strangle it, you'll never hit anything worth hitting.'"

He placed his hand over hers on the glass, their palms pressing together like they were trying to touch through the barrier between them.

"I think I've been strangling us," he said. "Trying so hard to hold on that I forgot how to let us breathe."

The goldfish slowed its circles, settling into the corner of its bowl.

"Maybe," Elena whispered, "we're just supposed to swim in small loops and pretend they're new each time."

Marcus turned her around and kissed her—for the first time in months, really kissed her—and outside, the palms stopped surrendering, standing tall against the wind, like something that had decided to endure.