The Goldfish at the End of the Marriage

The apartment was silent except for the hum of the refrigerator and the desperate, rhythmic gasping coming from the corner. Maya stood in the doorway of what used to be her bedroom, her running shoes still laced from the morning six miles she'd pounded along the river path, trying to outrun the conversation she knew was coming. Three weeks of sweating through her grief, and here she was again, summoned back to the scene of the crime.

'You forgot him,' David had said over the phone. 'The goldfish.'

She crossed the room and stared into the bowl on the nightstand. The goldfish—Barnaby, because David had insisted on naming everything after his childhood pets—was swimming in frantic circles, his scales dull in the afternoon light. Maya had always been the one to change the water, to sprinkle the flakes, to tap the glass when he seemed lonely. Now he was gasping at the surface, his mouth opening and closing like he was trying to tell her something she'd refused to hear for years.

Her iPhone buzzed against her hip—her sister, asking if she'd signed the papers yet. Maya ignored it.

'I know,' she whispered to the fish. 'I'm sorry.'

The bear of a problem she'd been running from finally caught up with her then, standing in the room that smelled like David's cologne and her own vanilla shampoo, watching a creature drown in plain sight. They'd bought Barnaby on their second anniversary, during that trip to the state fair where David had won her the stuffed bear she still kept on her side of the bed. They'd been so certain then, so stupidly young and hopeful. She'd loved them both—the man and the metaphor—that something so small could live in something so small and still call it a life.

Maya filled a plastic bag with water from the sink, careful not to jostle him. She'd take him to her sister's place, where her nephew had been begging for a pet. Barnaby would have a better life there. She would too.

Her phone buzzed again. This time she looked.

David: I think we made a mistake.

Maya stood at the kitchen counter, the goldfish swirling in his temporary prison, and for the first time in three weeks, the running stopped. She typed back: I know. Then deleted it.

She poured the goldfish into the waiting bowl on her sister's porch, left her phone on the kitchen counter, and started walking. Not running. Just walking, one foot in front of the other, toward whatever came next.