The Goldfish at the Edge of Everything

The chlorine stung my eyes as I stared into the **pool**, its surface broken only by the drifting bodies of my coworkers. This was the annual company retreat—mandatory fun, they called it. I stood at the edge, nursing a warm gin and tonic, watching David weave through the crowd like the **bull** in a china shop he'd always been, loud and oblivious to the damage he left behind.

My husband's **hat** sat on the lounge chair beside me—hissignature fedora, the one I'd begged him not to wear. He was somewhere inside the resort, probably networking, always working. That's what had attracted me to him initially: the ambition, the drive. Now, at forty-two, I wondered if drive was all he had.

"You look like you're plotting someone's murder."

I jumped. Elena from accounting stood beside me, holding two fresh drinks. She'd transferred in three months ago, and I'd been avoiding her since. Not because she wasn't lovely—she was. But the way she looked at me made me feel things I'd spent decades trying not to feel.

"Just thinking about **running** away," I said, accepting the drink.

"To where?"

"Anywhere. Everywhere."

Elena's fingers brushed mine as she took her drink back. The contact sent electricity through me, the kind I hadn't felt in years. Maybe ever. "My sister has a cabin in Vermont," she said casually. "She lends it to people who need to disappear for a while."

"And what happens when you come back?"

"You don't. Not really. You come back different."

David roared with laughter across the pool, surrounded by sycophants. He'd been promoted over me again. I'd trained him, mentored him, watched him take credit for my work. The corporate **bull** had trampled me one too many times.

I looked at the pool's filter, where a single **goldfish**—someone's forgotten prank, perhaps—swam in tight, endless circles. Trapped but alive. That's what I'd been: circling in my own small bowl, convincing myself it was an ocean.

Elena's eyes found mine. "Vermont is beautiful this time of year."

"I bet it is."

"I'm driving up tomorrow."

"Tomorrow." The word felt like a door opening.

I set down my drink, picked up my husband's hat, and placed it on the chair where I'd been sitting. Let him wonder. Let him ask questions I'd no longer have to answer.

"What time tomorrow?" I asked.

Elena smiled—slow, knowing, like she'd been waiting for this moment as long as I had. "Dawn. Pack light."

The goldfish continued its endless circles. But not me. Not anymore.