The Drowning Room

The goldfish was still alive. That was the first thing Maya noticed when she finally opened her eyes at 2 PM, Sunday afternoon. Leonard was gone—his half of the closet empty, his toothbrush missing from the holder—but the goldfish Leonard had won at that carnival three years ago, the one they'd jokingly named Marriage, was still swimming in its cloudy bowl on the windowsill.

Maya had been moving through the days like a zombie since he left. Not the flesh-eating kind from movies—the worse kind. The kind that shows up to work and answers emails and makes small talk in the breakroom while something inside has already died. She'd catch her reflection in the bathroom mirror at the office, eyes flat and distant, and wonder if anyone could see it. The rotting.

The water in the fishbowl needed changing. She'd been saying that for weeks. Leonard had always done it. He'd been the one who remembered to feed Marriage, who bought the flakes, who cared at all. Maya stood over the bowl now, watching the orange fish pulse its gills, swimming in the same tight circles it had been swimming in for three years.

She thought about Leonard's leaving letter. How he'd written that he felt like he was drowning in their life together. The irony wasn't lost on her—he'd left, but she was the one underwater now, holding her breath, waiting.

Maya went to the kitchen sink and filled a glass with water. She carried it back to the fishbowl and stopped. The fish swam to the surface, mouth opening and closing in silent expectation.

"I don't know how to take care of you," she said aloud. The words felt like the first real thing she'd said in weeks.

She set down the glass and opened the window. Spring air rolled in, cool and alive. Below, the city was waking up. People were walking dogs, carrying coffee, living lives that had texture and weight. Maya watched them for a long moment, then picked up the fishbowl.

Marriage swam faster, disturbed by the movement.

"We're going out," Maya said. "Before we both forget what the actual world looks like."

She carried the bowl to the door, keys jingling in her pocket. For the first time in thirteen days, the zombie moved like something that might, eventually, learn to be alive again.