The Division of Small Things

The iphone sat on the marble counter between them, its screen lighting up every thirty seconds with her sister's name. Marcus hadn't bothered to silence it. The way it pinged relentlessly, like some desperate heartbeat, felt appropriate.

"You can keep the cat," Sarah said, not looking up from the spreadsheet she'd created to divide their seven years together. Row after row of objects reduced to dollar values, as if that made this civilized. "I'm moving into that studio anyway. It wouldn't be fair."

"You hate that cat," Marcus said. "You called him a furry little sociopath last week."

"I didn't say I wanted him. I said you should have him. Someone should."

The cat — actually named Chairman Meow, though neither would admit this in public — wound himself around Marcus's legs, purring. The bastard knew. He'd always known.

"What about the goldfish?" Marcus asked, mostly to be difficult. It was a ridiculous fish they'd won at a carnival three years ago, somehow still alive against all odds and proper care.

"You." Sarah's pen paused over the paper. "Definitely you. It's your fault it's still alive anyway. You kept overfeeding it."

"I was nurturing it."

"You were creating a monster. It's enormous now. It's not normal, Marcus."

They'd met when he was deep in that pyramid scheme, selling essential oils or supplements or some other nonsense to strangers in hotel conference rooms. She'd been the one who pulled him out, six months and twelve thousand dollars later. The debt was finally paid off last month. Now this.

"Your hair's getting thin," she said, still not meeting his eyes. "Stress, probably."

"It's the lights in here. Fluorescents."

"No." She finally looked at him. "It's everything."

He touched the back of his head, where the hair had indeed been receding for months. She noticed these things. She noticed everything.

The iphone pinged again. Sarah's sister, probably wondering why she hadn't heard anything, why Sarah had moved out in the middle of the night with nothing but two suitcases and the good towels.

"You should answer that," Marcus said.

"I will. Just — after we finish this."

"We're not going to finish it, Sarah. Not really."

She nodded, finally setting down the pen. The cat jumped into her lap, purring, traitor that he was. She stroked his fur, once, then handed him back to Marcus like he was something she couldn't hold anymore.

"No," she said. "I suppose we're not."

She picked up the iphone and walked out, leaving behind the spreadsheet, the goldfish, the cat, and a marriage that had been ending for longer than either of them wanted to admit.