The Goldfish and the Abyss

Maya stood by the infinity pool at the Hartman's estate, clutching a champagne flute she'd been nursing for forty-five minutes. Her **hat**—wide-brimmed, ridiculous, something Aaron had insisted she buy for the summer solstice party—kept threatening to tumble into the turquoise water. She let it. It floated there like a small abandoned boat while nobody noticed.

The party pulsed around her. Aaron was somewhere near the outdoor bar, laughing too loudly at something his boss had said, his hand already finding the small of another woman's back. Maya had watched it happen three times tonight. Each time, she told herself it meant nothing. Each time, she believed herself a little less.

She turned toward the cabana where someone had left a tray of fruit. Quartered **papaya**, glistening in the sunset. She remembered how Aaron had brought her papaya on their third date, remembered how he'd said, "This is what we'll be like—sweet, unexpected, worth the trouble of finding." Now the fruit sat untouched, turning soft and brown at the edges, and she thought about how perfectly that described them.

A little girl with red curls carried a plastic bag toward the pool, her father trailing behind her.

"Are you sure, sweetie?"

"He doesn't like the bowl anymore," the girl said. "He needs more room."

Inside the bag, a **goldfish** darted through its limited water, orange and frantic. Maya watched the girl release it into the pool, watched it hesitate for one stunned moment before darting into deeper water, absolutely free in a way that made her chest ache.

"There," the father said. "He's happy now."

Maya thought: he might die. The chlorine, the temperature, the sheer vastness of it all. But she also thought: at least he chose.

She felt Aaron's presence before she saw him, the familiar heat of him, the expensive cologne.

"There you are," he said, but he was looking at her mouth, not her eyes. "You've been hiding."

"I've been thinking."

"About what?"

She thought about the papaya rotting on its tray. She thought about her hat floating toward the deep end. She thought about a goldfish choosing uncertain freedom over certain captivity.

"About how I don't want to be here anymore."

"The party's almost over—"

"No," she said. "Here. With you." The words felt like surfacing after holding her breath underwater. "I'm leaving, Aaron."

For once, he had nothing to say. She set her champagne glass on a nearby table and walked toward the house, toward her keys, toward whatever came next. Behind her, the pool reflected the last light of evening, and somewhere in its depths, a small orange fish swam into the unknown.