The Goldfish and the Dead

Another Tuesday, another grey hair in the sink. Maria plucked it out, watching the water spiral down the drain like her twenties. Her cat, Barnaby, wove between her ankles, demanding breakfast, as if the world hadn't ended three hours ago when David's text came through: *I can't do this anymore.*

She sat on the couch with cold coffee, the cable flickering in and out like her will to leave the apartment. The TV played a zombie marathon—undead faces shuffling through burned-out cities, searching for brains they'd never find. It felt too familiar. How many mornings had she shuffled through the subway, eyes glazed, coffee in hand, hunger knocking at the back of her skull but never quite breaking through?

Barnaby jumped onto her lap, purring like a tiny engine. She buried her face in his fur, smelling that particular combination of dust and sunshine that only cats seem to possess. He'd been David's idea. *Something to come home to,* he'd said, when they signed the lease together two years ago.

Now the apartment echoed with the space he'd left behind. His coffee mug still sat on the counter. His jacket hung by the door. His goldfish—stupid, innocent thing—swam lazy circles in its bowl on the windowsill, mouth opening and closing, opening and closing, like it had something important to say but couldn't quite remember the words.

*Seven seconds,* David had told her once, reading from his phone. *That's how long a goldfish's memory span is. Seven seconds, then everything's new again.*

She'd wanted to believe him. Wanted to believe that pain could be so easily forgotten, that loss could be rinsed away like coffee stains, that hearts could reset every seven seconds. But she knew better now.

The cable finally died for good, leaving her reflection in the black screen. Her hair tangled around her face, eyes rimmed red. The zombie on the paused TV looked almost peaceful compared to the hollowed-out thing staring back at her.

Barnaby nudged her hand with his wet nose. Somewhere outside, a siren wailed. The goldfish swam another circle.

*Seven seconds,* she thought. *If I were a goldfish, I could forget him. I could forget us. I could forget the way he looked at me yesterday like I was already a ghost.*

She reached for her phone, her thumb hovering over his name. Then she deleted the text thread instead.

Barnaby purred. The apartment held its breath. Seven seconds later, she was still there.