The Bowl

The goldfish has been alive for seven years. That's longer than I knew you.

I bought it the week after you stole my manuscript — that literary thriller about a woman who discovers her best friend is a fraud. The irony wasn't lost on me then. It isn't lost on me now, watching this orange creature circle its glass prison, its memory supposedly three seconds long. Sometimes I envy that.

You sent me an email last month. Subject line: "Coffee?" As if seven years of silence could be dissolved in a latte. As if you didn't build your career on words I wrote in the dark of our shared apartment, while you slept with the door open, trusting.

The lightning strikes before I hear the thunder. That's how it was with us — the flash of recognition came after the damage was done. I found the screenshots of my drafts on your laptop. I saw the publication date matched our last fight, the one where you accused me of being jealous.

The goldfish rises to the surface, mouth opening and closing in silent repetition. Feed me. Notice me. Keep me alive.

I haven't replied to your email. I can't decide if forgiveness is something I owe myself or something I deny you. The manuscript became a bestseller under your name. You tour now, signing books I wrote. I read the reviews — "electronic prose," "lightning-in-a-bottle storytelling," "a writer who understands the contours of betrayal."

You understand nothing. You only know how to take.

The fish's bowl needs cleaning. The water has that cloudy look that says something is dying beneath the surface. I should change it. I should let it go into the pond behind my building. I should write you back and say: I hope every word feels like ash in your mouth.

Instead, I drop another pinch of food into the water. The orange tail flashes as it descends. The fish eats, and I watch, and we both continue circling the same small space, pretending we don't remember exactly why we're here.