The Art of Maintaining Forward Motion

David had been running for forty-seven minutes when the bull appeared.

It wasn't metaphorical. There was an actual bull standing at the intersection of Oak and 4th, watching him with liquid brown eyes that seemed uncomfortably judgmental. David slowed to a walk, his breath hitching in the damp morning air. He was forty-three years old, divorced, currently sleeping on his brother's couch, and now apparently being mocked by livestock.

The bull chewed cud. David checked his watch.

"I'm running late," he told the animal.

The bull didn't respond. But then, neither had his ex-wife when he'd tried to explain why he'd cashed out his 401k to invest in cryptocurrency last year. His brother had been more vocal: "You're not allowed to die in my apartment, Dave. It's bad for the lease."

David continued his run, leaving the bull behind. His phone buzzed in his pocket—probably another LinkedIn notification. His former colleagues were all posting about promotions and corner offices. David had been laid off six months ago from the tech startup where he'd been VP of Something Vague. Now he was consulting, which mostly meant helping people half his age pretend they knew what they were doing.

Back at his brother's apartment, David fed the goldfish.

It was the only thing from his marriage he'd been allowed to keep. Sarah had kept the house, the car, the dignity. David had gotten the fish. Its name was Fish, because they'd never been able to agree on anything else.

"You're still alive," David said, sprinkling flakes into the bowl. "That's more than I can say for my portfolio."

Fish stared at him with its perpetually surprised expression.

David had read somewhere that goldfish had three-second memories. Fish had been alive for seven years, which either disproved the theory or meant Fish was living the same three seconds of existential wonder over and over again, forever discovering itself anew in a glass prison of its own making.

"Relatable," David told the fish.

His phone buzzed again. Not LinkedIn this time.

**David**: Your mother says you forgot her birthday again.

David stared at the text from his sister. Had he? What day was it? Wednesday? Thursday?

He started typing an apology, then stopped. What was the point? Another apology, another disappointment, another entry in the ledger of ways he'd failed to become the person everyone expected him to be.

He set the phone down and looked at Fish, swimming its endless laps in water that was probably overdue for changing.

"We're both just swimming in circles," David said. "But at least one of us is getting somewhere."

Fish ignored him, which seemed fair. Fish had never asked to be named Fish. Fish had never asked to live in a bowl on a cheap IKEA table in a bachelor apartment that smelled like stale coffee and regret.

David's phone lit up with a calendar notification: **Networking Lunch - 12:30 PM**.

He stood up, stretched, and headed toward the shower. He was running late, running out of savings, running out of time. But he was still moving forward, step by step, mile by mile, putting one foot in front of the other because that's what adults did.

They kept running.

Fish swam another lap. Somewhere, a bull chewed cud. And David got in the shower, because tomorrow he was going to nail that networking lunch, and eventually, somehow, he was going to figure out how to be the person he kept promising everyone he'd become.

Maybe tomorrow would be the day he finally got somewhere.

Or maybe he'd just keep swimming in circles, surprised to find himself in the same place, again and again, forever.