The Goldfish at the End of the Line

The cable guy was the first person she'd spoken to in days. He stood in her living room, his coverall stained with something dark, explaining that her internet would be out until morning.

"Could be a severed line outside," he said. "Sometimes happens when people don't communicate what they're digging."

She nodded, not telling him that communication was exactly what had ended her marriage. That Richard had packed his things last Tuesday while she was at work, leaving only a note and his collection of ceramic goldfish bowls. Now three bowls sat on her kitchen counter, the fish staring with their perpetual expressions of surprise.

"Ma'am?" The cable guy was looking at her. "You okay?"

"Fine," she said. "Just tired." She adjusted the wig—hair that wasn't hers, smooth and brown, nothing like the frizzy red that Richard had claimed to love once and later called "unruly." The hat came next, pulling it low over her forehead.

After he left, she stood in the silent apartment. Outside, somewhere, a severed cable dangled. Inside, three goldfish swam in endless circles, their three-second memories a kind of mercy. They'd never remember that their keeper was gone. They'd never notice that she was different now—hair covered, heart hollowed out.

She walked to the kitchen and dropped a flake of food into each bowl. The fish rose to the surface, mouths opening and closing, grateful for this small thing she could still give them.

"At least someone's happy to see me," she whispered.

The wig felt itchy. The hat felt like a costume. She took them both off and caught her reflection in the darkened window—wild hair, dark circles, something raw and unfamiliar in her eyes. Maybe this was who she was now. Someone whose husband left ceramic bowls and fish. Someone who could be severed as easily as a cable in the ground.

She watched the goldfish swim and wondered, not for the first time, if having only three seconds of memory might be a gift. If she could forget Richard had ever existed, would she hurt this much? Or would she just keep swimming in circles, grateful for whatever food fell from above?

Tomorrow she'd call about the cable. Tomorrow she'd decide what to do with three fish bowls. Tonight, she stood in the quiet of her half-empty apartment and learned how to be alone.