The Goldfish at the End of the Bar

The glass was too clean. Elena sat in the booth at Marino's, watching her reflection superimposed over the restaurant's gloom, and thought about how she'd spent three years as a corporate spy for a competitor that didn't even remember her name. She'd stolen trade secrets, copied proprietary algorithms, seduced a junior VP who cried when she told him she was moving to Seattle. And now she was back, because some part of her wanted to be caught.

The water in the vase on her table was cloudy. Three roses drooped against the glass like tired dancers, and she found herself resenting them for their surrender. That was the problem with being good at disappearing—you eventually forgot who you were supposed to be when you stopped running.

'You look like someone waiting for bad news,' said a voice beside her.

Elena turned. A man in his forties with gray at his temples and eyes that had seen too many hotel rooms at 3 AM. He was holding a drink she didn't recognize.

'I'm Elena,' she said, because it had been months since anyone asked.

'Jack.' He gestured to the empty seat. 'I promise I'm not hitting on you. You just have that look.'

'What look?'

'Like you're carrying something you can't put down.' He took a sip. 'My therapist calls it bearing the weight. I call it being alive too long.'

She laughed, surprised. On the bar, a goldfish swam in endless circles, its orange flash the brightest thing in the room. 'I used to have one of those,' she said. 'My brother won it at a carnival. We kept it in a bowl on the kitchen counter. It died while we were at school.'

'The goldfish or the brother?'

'Both, eventually.' The words came out harder than she intended. 'The fish was easier. You flush it, you buy another one. People leave holes you can't fill.'

Jack studied her. 'You steal things for a living?'

Her heart jumped. 'What?'

'Information. Secrets. You have the posture of someone who's spent too long being someone else.' He set down his drink. 'I used to work for the same people you probably do. The difference is, I burned out instead of burning bridges.'

Elena felt something crack open in her chest. 'I'm meeting someone,' she lied, and stood up.

'The goldfish,' Jack said, not looking at her. 'It's not running in circles. It's swimming. There's a difference.'

She walked out into the rain, her coat inadequate, and found herself weeping—soft, messy tears that had nothing to do with the job or the past or the junior VP in Seattle. She got into her car and drove until the road ended at a lake she'd never seen, where she sat watching the water until dawn, and for the first time in three years, she didn't look over her shoulder once.