The Goldfish at the Bottom of the Pool

The spinach salad sat untouched on the kitchen counter, wilting in the June heat. Elena had made it because David always said he needed to eat more greens—that's what his doctor had told him after the second heart scare. But David wasn't coming to dinner. David wasn't coming anywhere anymore.

She'd spent the morning swimming laps at the YMCA, her body cutting through the chlorinated water while her mind kept replaying the fight they'd had two nights before. He'd called her cold, unfeeling, like she was some kind of machine going through the motions of their marriage. She'd told him he was imagining things, that she loved him, but the words had sounded hollow even to her own ears. That's when he'd grabbed his keys and walked out into the rain.

Now, three days later, she was alone with the wilting spinach and the house that felt too large for one person.

In the corner of the living room, David's goldfish—Cornelius—swam lazy circles in his bowl. David had won the fish at a carnival four years into their marriage, bringing it home like some sort of prize, like it meant something. "He's got character," David had insisted, watching the fish dart through its artificial castle. "Look at him. He's a survivor."

Elena had never seen it. To her, Cornelius was just another mouth to feed, another responsibility in a life already overstuffed with them. But David had loved that ridiculous fish with its fan tail and bulging eyes, loved it with a tenderness he'd stopped showing her somewhere around year seven.

She crossed to the fishbowl now and sprinkled in a pinch of food. Cornelius rose to the surface, gulping flakes with that same mindless enthusiasm he'd shown for fifteen years. That was the thing about goldfish—they didn't ask for much. They didn't question why you were distant, or demand explanations for your silences. They just kept swimming, endlessly circling their tiny kingdoms.

Elena pressed her palm against the cool glass. "You and me both, buddy," she whispered.

The phone rang—David's sister, wanting to know if Elena had heard from him. No, she hadn't. Yes, she'd filed a missing person report this morning. Yes, the police were looking. She kept her voice steady through the conversation, even as she imagined David somewhere with his car broken down on some stretch of highway, or worse, realizing he could simply choose not to come back.

After she hung up, she stood in the center of their kitchen and breathed in the smell of warming spinach, of chlorine still clinging to her skin, of the empty house that held fifteen years of a life she wasn't sure she'd ever really known how to live.

Cornelius swam another lap.

Elena began to cry, finally, for the first time since David had walked out into the rain.