The Goldfish at the End of the Cable

The coaxial cable had been loose for weeks. Elena kept meaning to call the provider, but every time she picked up the phone, she found herself staring at the fish tank instead.

The goldfish—a carnival prize from a date three months ago—swam in lazy circles. Its bowl sat on the windowsill, catching morning light that transformed the water into something almost holy.

"You're out of food," she told the fish. It didn't respond.

At the grocery store, Elena pushed her cart down the supplements aisle, pausing before a wall of vitamin bottles. B12 for energy. D for mood. She'd been taking them since the breakup, a daily ritual of optimism she no longer believed in. Still, she dropped a bottle into her cart.

Her phone buzzed. *Mark: Can we talk?*

She stared at the screen until the letters blurred. The goldfish had been Mark's idea. *Something low-maintenance,* he'd said, grinning as he won it by tossing a ping-pong ball into a small glass bowl. Three weeks later, he was gone, and she was left with a fish that forgot her every three seconds.

At home, she wilted spinach in a pan, watching it collapse the way she had when he said he needed space. The apartment was too quiet. She ate standing up, scrolling through photos of them together, deleting one every few seconds.

The cable TV finally sputtered to life. A home improvement show played, too loud, too bright. Elena turned it off and sat on the floor by the fish bowl.

"You're terrible company," she said. The goldfish surfaced, mouth opening and closing.

She dropped a flake of food. The fish devoured it.

"Same tomorrow," she promised. "And the day after."

The spinach had gone cold. The vitamins sat unopened on the counter. But for now, in this small apartment with its loose cable connection and its silent, forgetful companion, Elena found herself unexpectedly okay with being exactly where she was.