The Goldfish at the End of the World

The goldfish had been floating sideways for three days before Maya finally accepted it wasn't just resting. Its orange scales caught the fluorescent light of her cubicle, a tiny beacon of failure in a sea of corporate beige. She'd won it at that stupid office picnic—the one where her ex-husband had announced he was leaving her for a swimsuit model half his age.

'Are you going to flush it?' asked Karen from the adjacent cubicle, her voice dripping with that special kind of sympathy that feels like pity.

Maya stared at the fish. It reminded her of herself, actually—swimming in endless circles, trapped in glass, waiting for someone to sprinkle food through the hole in the top. 'No,' she said. 'I'm going to give it a proper burial.'

Outside, the Seattle rain had turned the world into a water painting of gray on gray. Maya's apartment complex boasted a pool—more of a oversized bathtub, really—where she sometimes went swimming at 2 AM when insomnia felt like drowning. The water was always too warm, smelling of chlorine and other people's loneliness.

She stopped at the pet store on the way home, bought a tiny aquarium net and a bottle of water conditioner that promised to 'neutralize harmful toxins.' Like anything could.

Her cat, Bartholomew, met her at the door with that judgmental stare only cats can perfect. He'd been her only consistent companion since David left, though sometimes she suspected he was just waiting for her to die so he could eat her face. The internet said that's what cats did.

'Trade you,' Maya whispered, dropping the goldfish into the toilet bowl.

Bartholomew flicked his tail.

She hesitated with her hand on the flush handle. The goldfish's final resting place: the city sewer system, joining condoms and rats and lost dreams in the underground labyrinth beneath Seattle. It felt undignified. But then again, so had her divorce. So had crying in the breakroom when David forwarded her his portion of the cable bill with 'FINAL NOTICE' highlighted in yellow.

The goldfish had lived six months. That was longer than she'd kept any houseplant. Longer than her marriage had lasted after the announcement.

Maya flushed.

She watched the water swirl, taking the little orange body with it, thinking about how everything eventually goes down the drain—love, careers, fish. Then she turned off the bathroom light and went to find Bartholomew, who was probably plotting his eventual feast.