The Goldfish at the End of the World

The goldfish in Marcus's aquarium had been swimming the same lazy circuits for three years. Melanie watched it now, its orange scales catching the afternoon light through the blinds, while Marcus adjusted the cable management behind his desk. They were both married to other people. They were both dead inside.

"You look like a zombie," Marcus said, not looking up from the tangle of wires.

Melanie touched the spinach leaf stuck between her front teeth—remnant of the sad desk salad she'd eaten while watching coworkers pretend to care about Q3 projections. She'd felt it there since lunch, a tiny green flag of surrender. "Rough night."

"The same kind of rough as always?"

"The kind where you lie awake listening to your husband breathe and wonder how you ended up here."

Marcus finally turned to her. His eyes were that flat corporate blue, like water in a waiting room tank. He stood up and closed his office door, the click final as a coffin lid.

They didn't touch. They never did anymore. That particular fire had burned itself out somewhere around the six-month mark, replaced by this: two hollow people sharing oxygen and the bitter knowledge that they were living lives they hadn't chosen.

"I saw her," Melanie said. "Your wife. At the grocery store."

Marcus's face didn't change. "And?"

"She was buying organic spinach. She looked alive."

"She doesn't know."

"Doesn't she?" Melanie pressed her hand to the glass. The goldfish darted away. "Women always know. We just decide whether the truth is worth the burning."

"What would you burn?" His voice cracked, just once.

"Everything," she said, and meant it. "Or nothing. Those are the only choices left."

The air conditioning hummed. Somewhere down the hall, a phone rang. Their affair had become this: cable management and spinach between teeth and fish swimming in circles, going absolutely nowhere, together.