The Goldfish at the Bottom of the Pool

The summer heat wave had turned the backyard pool into something resembling bathwater, but Elena sat on the edge anyway, her legs submerged up to the knees. She was forty-three now, the gray threading through her dark hair no longer something she could pluck out one by one. Behind her, the party continued — colleagues from the firm, their spouses, the clinking of glasses, someone's terrible playlist pulsing through outdoor speakers.

She'd come because Mark said he would be here. Mark, who'd left the department three months ago for that startup in Austin. Mark, who'd sent her a single email since then: 'The coffee here is shit. Remember our machine?'

Elena touched the silver locket at her throat — its clasp broken since the week after he left. She'd meant to fix it. Just like she'd meant to respond to that email. Just like she'd meant to tell him, in all those years of working side by side, of late nights debugging code until the office building's HVAC system wheezed to a halt, that she felt something more than professional camaraderie.

But there had always been reasons not to. He was married. Then she was married. Then they were both divorced, but by then he'd already put in his notice.

A sudden flash illuminated the yard — lightning, though no thunder followed. The storm was still miles away, approaching slowly, deliberately.

Her daughter's voice called from the patio: 'Mom, come look! The goldfish escaped!'

Elena turned to see her seven-year-old pointing at the pool's drain, where a single orange fish — one of the carnival-won prizes from last year — darted between the tiles. It had been living in a bowl on the back porch. How had it gotten here?

'Probably just wanted to swim somewhere bigger,' someone said. Elena couldn't see who.

She watched the goldfish navigate the shallow end, flashing its orange scales in the gathering dusk. It seemed impossibly small against the vast blue expanse, yet entirely undeterred by its own smallness.

Lightning struck again, closer this time. The first raindrop hit the water's surface.

Elena stood up, water dripping from her legs, and walked toward the house. She needed to check on the fish bowl, see if there were others. And then she needed to find her phone, open that old email, and type: 'Austin coffee really that bad? I'm told they've improved.': She was forty-three, and some things were worth swimming upstream for.