The Goldfish at Sunset

The divorce papers sat on her kitchen counter next to a bottle of vitamin D supplements that Dr. Chen had prescribed for the seasonal affective disorder she didn't actually have. Julia had bought them during that month she'd believed the problem was chemical, that the right combination of pills and light therapy could fix what seven years of marriage had slowly eroded.

Her iPhone vibrated with another text from Marcus: Can we talk? Please.

She watched the goldfish—his name was Barry, a joke that had ceased being funny approximately three weeks into their marriage—swimming in endless circles around his bowl. Barry had been a wedding gift from her sister, something about Chinese symbols of prosperity and abundance. The irony wasn't lost on her now. Barry was still here. Marcus had moved out two months ago.

"You're projecting onto a fish," Marcus had said during their last real conversation, the one where they'd both finally stopped pretending counseling was helping. "You're projecting onto a fish that has a seven-second memory and literally cannot experience existential dread."

But Barry's swimming had seemed purposeful lately, urgent somehow. He pressed his orange scales against the glass, mouth opening and closing in silent accusation or maybe just respiration. Who was she to say?

The orange sunset hit the kitchen just so, illuminating dust motes that had accumulated since Marcus stopped coming by to clean. She should clean. She should take the vitamins. She should answer him.

Instead, she sprinkled fish food into Barry's bowl, watching the flakes drift down like snow, like time, like all the small accommodations you make until one day you realize you've accommodated yourself into someone you no longer recognize. Barry rose to meet them, his mouth working, his tail undulating.

She picked up her phone and typed: No. There's nothing left to say. Then deleted it, because nothing and everything left to say were somehow the same thing.

The water's surface broke the light into fractured patterns on the ceiling. Something about it felt like permission. She left the vitamins on the counter, the phone face-down, and watched Barry swim his small, perfect circles—knowing somehow that the circles weren't the point at all.