The Goldfish and the Girl

You smell like her. That particular scent — artificial freshwater and boxwood — lingers even after she showers, even after she claims she's just been playing padel with the girls from accounting.

I should know. I've been sleeping on the couch for three weeks.

The goldfish circles his bowl, oblivious, his orange scales catching the morning light that bleeds through the blinds we never bothered to replace. He was her anniversary gift to me two years ago: "Something low-maintenance," she'd said, pressing the plastic-wrapped bowl into my hands with that particular smile that never quite reached her eyes anymore. "Like you."

I'd laughed then. I don't laugh much now.

The cat, a raggedy tom that appeared on our balcony last winter and never left, watches me from his perch atop the refrigerator. He knows something's wrong. Animals always do. He's stopped sleeping at the foot of our bed — now he sleeps curled against my back on the couch, as if he's chosen a side in this silent war.

"Are you coming?" she calls from the bedroom. Her voice is flat. Exhausted. Or maybe I'm projecting. "We're meeting the others at the club at seven."

"Go ahead," I say, still watching the fish. "I'll catch up."

I don't tell her what I found yesterday, tucked inside her padel bag: a receipt for a bracelet I've never seen, dated last Friday, signed with a name that isn't mine. I don't tell her I recognized the name — the new senior partner from the mergers division. The one who's been organizing the weekend tournaments. The one who always partners with her.

The goldfish surfaces, gulps air, sinks again.

I should probably just feed him to the cat.

Instead, I stand up, grab my racquet from where it leans against the wall, and follow her into the bedroom to get changed. Some games you play because you want to win. Others you play because you're not ready to walk off the court just yet.