The Goldfish at the End of the Line

Maya had been running for forty-five minutes when her shin splints started screaming, but she didn't stop. The treadmill's display mocked her with its relentless counting—calories burned, distance accumulated, time wasted. At 2 AM in her apartment complex's gym, the only other signs of life were the fluorescent lights buzzing overhead and the goldfish swimming lazily in its bowl on the reception desk. She'd named it Jerry after her ex-husband's lawyer. The fish had more freedom than she felt these days.

The divorce papers had arrived yesterday, delivered by cable during her lunch break—the medium somehow fitting for a message that had traveled through so many channels already. Her husband of twelve years had moved his things out last month, leaving behind only the papaya tree in their backyard. It was the only thing either of them had managed to keep alive during the last year of their marriage. Now its fruits ripened and fell, unpicked, while Maya ran in circles.

She slowed to a walk, her breath ragged in the silent room. The goldfish rose to the surface, its mouth opening and closing in that perpetual silent plea for food. "I know," she whispered. "But we're both just swimming in glass boxes anyway."

The maintenance door opened. A man in coveralls stepped in, carrying a toolbox. He saw Maya, dripping sweat on the treadmill, then noticed her watching him. "Working late?" he asked, though it was technically early.

"Just running," she said, then laughed bitterly. "Always running."

He set down his toolbox near the goldfish bowl. "I'm here to fix the cable," he said. "Reception's been spotty. You probably haven't noticed."

"No," she said. "I haven't been watching."

The fish swam to the front of its bowl, staring at them both.

"My ex-wife left me her goldfish," the man said, his back to her as he worked. "Best thing I got in the divorce. Doesn't talk back. Doesn't ask what I'm running from."

Maya stepped off the treadmill. Her legs trembled. "I'm not running from anything," she said, then stopped. "That's a lie. I'm running toward something. I just haven't figured out what yet."

"Keep running," he said, turning to face her. "Eventually you'll either find it or you'll get tired enough to stop and look around."

Maya looked at the goldfish, then at the empty papaya bowl she'd brought from home, sitting on the floor beside her treadmill. She'd eaten the last piece this morning, standing in her kitchen, crying over how something so sweet could taste so lonely.

"I think I'm tired," she said.

"Then stop running," he said. "Start living."

She did.