The Art of Keeping Things Alive

The goldfish circled its bowl in the corner of Maya's apartment, its orange scales catching the afternoon light. She'd bought it on impulse three weeks ago, the same day she received her mother's diagnosis. Her mother was dying, slowly and terribly, and Maya had responded by purchasing a living thing she could keep alive.

Now her mother was gone, and the goldfish persisted.

"You're going to need a friend," Chloe had said last night at the dive bar where they'd collided after five years of silence. Chloe, who had been her person through college and first heartbreaks and cross-country moves. Chloe, whose wedding Maya had declined to attend three years ago, and who had never quite forgiven her for it.

They'd ended up at Maya's apartment at 2 AM, drunk and suddenly, painfully honest. Maya had confessed her mother's death, her loneliness, her inability to throw away anything that had belonged to her mother. Chloe had cried about her divorce, how she'd married the wrong person because she'd been afraid to be alone.

They'd fallen asleep on Maya's couch, limbs tangled like old times, and woken to the goldfish watching them with its unblinking eye.

Now Chloe was in the kitchen, making breakfast. Maya watched her move through the space with the familiarity of someone who had once lived there, who knew which cabinet held the plates and where Maya kept her coffee.

"I bought spinach," Chloe called out. "For the eggs. Remember how you used to make those spinach omelets in college?"

Maya hadn't made spinach omelets in years. Hadn't thought about them. Hadn't thought about how Chloe used to sit on her counter while she cooked, talking about everything and nothing.

"Yeah," Maya said. "I remember."

"The fish needs a bigger tank," Chloe said, coming to stand beside her, both of them looking at the orange fish swimming its endless circles. "And it needs a friend. Goldfish get lonely, you know."

Maya looked at Chloe, really looked at her—the lines around her eyes that hadn't been there five years ago, the new jaggedness to her smile, the way she still stood too close, like she knew Maya's boundaries and was gently testing them.

"I know," Maya said. "I know."

The spinach sizzled in the pan. The goldfish swam toward them, expectant. And Maya realized she didn't want to be alone anymore, that maybe she never had, that some things—friendships, love, grief—didn't have to be perfect to be worth keeping alive.