The Goldfish at the End of the World

Margaret stood at the edge of the apartment complex's pool, clutching a plastic bag filled with murky water. Inside, a single orange goldfish darted between her fingers—Arthur's fish, the one thing she'd taken when she moved out three months ago. The divorce was final now, the papers signed and filed, but she still couldn't bring herself to flush the damn thing.

'You're going to freeze out here,' a voice said behind her.

Margaret turned to find Elias, the building's superintendent, holding a sandwich wrapped in wax paper. He was maybe forty, with grease-stained fingers and eyes that had seen too many tenants leave in the middle of the night.

'I'm just saying goodbye,' she said, lifting the bag slightly.

Elias unwrapped his sandwich. 'You know, my ex-wife left her goldfish too. Thing lived for six years after she was gone. Longer than our marriage, actually.' He took a bite, chewing thoughtfully. 'There's spinach in your teeth, by the way. From dinner?'

Margaret's tongue found the stubborn green wedge lodged in her molar. She'd spent two hours at her sister's, picking at a salad while everyone asked if she was okay, if she'd found a place, if she was ever going to stop crying in the laundry room. The spinach was like everything else in her life—small, persistent, impossible to fully remove.

'I was going to let him go in the pool,' she said suddenly. 'Give him a fighting chance.'

Elias laughed, but not unkindly. 'That's chlorinated water, Margaret. He'd be dead in an hour.' He stepped closer, close enough that she could smell the mustard on his breath. 'Some things aren't meant to be free. Some things need tanks.'

The pool lights flickered on automatically, casting blue ripples across his face. Margaret looked at the goldfish, at its stupid open mouth, at the way it kept swimming in the same tiny circles, oblivious to the vast, deadly water just feet away.

'I don't know what I'm doing,' she said, and it wasn't about the fish anymore.

'Nobody does,' Elias said, and his hand brushed her shoulder, warm and brief. 'But you can start by not killing the goldfish.'

So Margaret didn't. She carried him back upstairs to her empty apartment, where she set the bag on the counter and finally, finally flossed the spinach from her teeth. The goldfish kept swimming, indifferent to her small survival, and somewhere below, the pool waited for spring.