The Goldfish at Her Desk

Maya's hair started falling out three weeks after the layoffs began—at first just a few strands on her pillow, then entire dark curls abandoning her scalp like rats leaving a sinking ship. At twenty-seven, she'd never considered mortality, let alone follicular mortality, but staring into her bathroom mirror at the widening part, she understood something about how quickly things could leave you.

At the office, the goldfish bowl had become the center of her universe. Someone had left it behind on a cleared-out desk—Brenda's desk, before HR escorted her out with a box of personal items and a seven-day severance check. The goldfish, improbably named Captain, swam in endless circles, its orange scales catching the fluorescent light, its mouth opening and closing in silent commentary on the absurdity of corporate life.

"You're going to die if someone doesn't feed you," Maya told Captain, dropping another flake of food into the bowl. The fish rose to the surface, gulping, and she thought:aren't we all.

Her husband, Eric, had brought home a papaya the night before. A gesture, inadequate but well-meaning. They'd been eating toast and eggs for weeks since his restaurant lost its liquor license—the stench of anxiety in their apartment was only occasionally masked by the sweetness of tropical fruit he couldn't afford. She'd cut it open at dawn, the orange flesh shocking against the gray morning, ate it standing over the sink while Eric slept, juice running down her chin like something alive.

Captain's bowl needed cleaning. The water had grown cloudy, and Maya wondered if fish could feel despair, or if they simply existed in their small watered worlds, unaware that the glass walls were both shelter and prison. She logged onto her computer, opened the spreadsheet she'd been updating for three months, tracking departmental expenses that would eventually justify her own elimination.

At 4 PM, her manager called her into his office. The carpet was new, installed after the old one became stained with coffee and tears during the first round of firings. She sat in the ergonomic chair, legs crossed, conscious of the hair that would soon be gone, the husband waiting at home with another piece of fruit they couldn't afford, the goldfish circling its glass prison in innocent perpetuity.

"Maya," he said, and she understood that some things—like papaya season, like employment, like youth—have endings you can see coming but can never quite prepare for. She nodded, thought about Captain's endless swimming, and stood up to collect her things.