The Goldfish at the Funeral

The goldfish had been dead for three days, but Maya couldn't bring herself to flush him. Fin sat there in his temporary bowl on the windowsill, suspended between life and whatever came after, much like Maya herself.

She'd found him the morning Ethan moved out—floated to the surface like some terrible omen. Now she stood in her bathroom at 7 AM, adjusting her fedora, preparing to face her coworkers at the agency where they'd both worked. Where he still worked. Where his new assistant, a twenty-four-year-old named Taylor who wore orange lipstick and seemingly existed to make Maya question every decision she'd made since graduating college, would definitely be there.

Maya caught her reflection. The hat was too much—funeral chic for a Monday. She removed it, running fingers through hair that desperately needed attention. Everything in this apartment desperately needed attention.

At work, the office was its usual self-contained ecosystem of passive-aggressive emails and unrealized dreams. Ethan's office door was closed. She imagined him in there, maybe on a call with a client, maybe commiserating with Taylor about his difficult ex-wife. Not that they were divorced. Just separated. Just "taking space"—a phrase she'd come to hate more than she'd ever hated anything.

"You look like you've seen a ghost," said Rebecca from the next desk, sliding over a coffee. "Bear up, hon. We've got the Fox account presentation at noon."

The Fox account. The outdoor apparel brand that was going to save their fiscal quarter. The pitch Ethan was supposed to lead. The pitch Maya now had to deliver because someone had to be the professional one.

"I'm fine," Maya said. "Just didn't sleep well."

"Goldfish trouble?" Rebecca asked, and Maya stared at her. "I saw your Instagram. Poor Fin."

"Yeah. Poor Fin."

In the presentation room, the Fox representatives sat with arms crossed, skeptical. Ethan walked in late with Taylor, who indeed wore orange lipstick and possessed an infuriating lack of self-consciousness. They took seats at the back.

Maya's presentation was flawless. She'd done it in her sleep, had probably practiced it in her dreams. When she finished, the room was silent. Then the lead Fox representative nodded.

"That's exactly what we're looking for," she said. "Authentic. Raw. Like you actually understand what it means to survive winter."

Afterward, in the hallway, Ethan caught her arm. "You were brilliant. I never should have—"

"Don't," she said. "Please."

"Maya, I miss you. I miss us."

She looked at him—really looked at him—and realized she didn't miss anything. Not really. She missed the idea of them. She missed who she thought she'd be at thirty-five. But she didn't miss him.

"I need to go home," she said. "I have to flush my fish."

Ethan laughed, confused. "Is that a metaphor?"

"No," she said, already walking away. "It's just something I need to do."

That evening, Maya flushed Fin, then walked to the corner store and bought a single orange. She ate it standing at the kitchen sink, letting the juice run down her chin, sticky and bright and undeniably alive. For the first time in months, she wasn't waiting for something to begin or something to end. This was it. This was the middle. And it was enough.