The Goldfish at the Edge of Everything

Miranda stood at the edge of the pool, clutching her sun hat like a shield. The water reflected the sickly orange of the hotel roof, making it look less like a swimming pool and more like something that had already been digested. Somewhere beneath the surface, a single goldfish darted between the lanes—a pet someone had released, or perhaps escaped. She envied it.

"You're going to burn."

She didn't turn. David's voice still carried that same careful cadence it had when he'd told her the marketing budget was being cut. When he'd told her his marriage was fine. When he'd told her anything that wasn't true.

"I'm not staying long."

"Good. The team dinner starts in an hour." He moved beside her, and she caught his scent—chlorammonium and expensive cologne. "You should wear something nicer than that."

Her hand went to her hair, self-conscious. Three gray hairs in the past month. Each one felt like a betrayal. "I'm fine."

David sighed, that heavy, put-upon sound that meant he wanted to be the reasonable one. "Look, about last night—"

A cable snapped somewhere above them. A lamp swung wildly on its tether, casting chaotic shadows across the water. They both flinched.

"Never mind," he said.

She watched the goldfish surface, mouth opening and closing in silent supplication.

"Did you know they only grow to the size of their container?" she said.

"What?"

"Goldfish. They become their limitations."

David checked his watch. "I need to finalize the slides. Just—put on something professional, okay? For the team."

When he was gone, she took off her hat. Her hair spilled out, wild and gray and utterly undone. She threw the hat into the pool, where it floated like a abandoned nest. Then she walked back to her room, already formulating her resignation letter, already feeling the terrifying, electric pull of something larger than any container she'd ever known.