The Goldfish at the End

The goldfish circled its bowl, endless loops in orange-tinted water, and Maria thought: this is us. Mark was in the kitchen again, the hum of the refrigerator competing with the dull thrum of his silence. They'd become experts at this—two zombies moving through a shared life, careful not to touch, careful not to wake whatever was still breathing between them.

"Dinner's ready," Mark said, sliding a plate across the counter. Spinach salad, again. Always spinach. Like eating lawn clippings, something green and pretending to be alive.

Maria ate mechanically, watching the goldfish suspend itself in the water, its gills pulsing. She'd bought it three years ago, somewhere between the miscarriage and Mark's promotion, somewhere between "we'll try again" and "maybe we should take some time." The fish had outlasted their ability to look at each other.

"I'm swimming in it," Mark said suddenly, staring at his phone.

"What?"

"Work. It's drowning me." He didn't look up. "Laura from accounting thinks I should ask for a raise."

Laura. The name dropped between them like a stone in still water. Maria had seen the texts—late-night messages about "the project," about how stressed he was, how she understood him in ways no one else could. The other zombie in his office, equally hungry, equally hollow.

"Ask, then," Maria said, and her voice sounded like someone else's, like a recording played too many times.

The goldfish floated to the surface, mouth opening and closing in silent prayer. Maria stood up, her chair scraping against the floor, and walked to the window. Outside, the streetlights flickered on, painting everything in that sick orange glow of urban twilight. Somewhere in this city, thousands of people were pretending to be alive, swimming through their evenings, their marriages, their lives.

She pressed her forehead against the glass. "Mark?"

"Yeah?"

"Do you still love me?"

The silence stretched so thin she could see through it. Behind her, the goldfish made another endless circle, swimming nowhere, going nowhere, caught in a prison it had forgotten was a prison.

"Of course," Mark said, but he was already typing a message, and Maria didn't need to ask who it was for.

The spinach tasted like ash. The goldfish swam on. And somewhere in the distance, a siren wailed, and Maria thought: finally. Someone is coming to save us. But the siren faded, and the apartment held its breath, and she remained, swimming in circles, orange light pooling around her like the end of something that had died long ago.