The Art of Losing

Mara pressed her palm against the cold window of her empty apartment, watching the street below where a fox darted between parked cars, its red tail flashing like a warning signal. Three weeks since David left, and she was still counting time in abandoned objects.

The baseball cap he'd forgotten on the kitchen counter was gone now—she'd thrown it out, a small act of cowardice she couldn't quite forgive herself for. In its place sat a bowl with one goldfish, a rescue from her niece's failed science experiment. The fish swam in endless circles, its orange scales catching the afternoon light, oblivious to how thoroughly it embodied Mara's current state.

"You should eat something," her mother had said over the phone that morning, as if nutrition could fix a life that had quietly imploded. Mara had bought spinach at the grocery store, watching her hands place the green bunch in her basket as if someone else were controlling them. The spinach now wilted in her refrigerator, another small failure.

Her phone buzzed. David.

She stared at his name until the screen dimmed. They'd met at a baseball game—she'd spilled mustard on his shirt, he'd laughed and bought her a beer. Now that same shirt was probably folded in someone else's drawer.

The goldfish surfaced, bubbles breaking the water's surface. Mara remembered reading that goldfish have three-second memories, though she knew it was a myth. Still, she envied them. Imagine living entirely in the present, no past to regret, no future to dread.

Outside, the fox reappeared, pausing under a streetlamp as if posing for a photograph. Wild and unbothered, moving through the city as if it belonged to her.

Mara turned from the window and grabbed her keys. She'd drive to the coast tonight, stand by the ocean until something made sense again. The spinach could wait. The goldfish would survive. She left her phone on the counter, screen dark, and walked out the door without looking back at the empty rooms behind her.