The Goldfish at the Funeral

The orange slice floated in her punch, useless and garnish, much like her presence at this funeral. The reception hall smelled of cheap buffet and unresolved grief. Across the room, David adjusted his black hat, avoiding her eyes.

Three years ago, they'd been lovers in this same venue, drunk on someone else's wedding champagne and the thrill of workplace secrecy. He'd been married then. She'd been the one with the moral compass, conveniently misplaced.

Now his wife was dead—cancer, not karma—and the goldfish they'd won together at the company Christmas party that year was probably dead too. They'd named it Norma, after his wife. Dark humor, the kind that burns going down.

"You came," David said, appearing beside her. His hat was crushed in his hand now.

"Wouldn't miss it."

"Norma died last week, by the way. The fish."

"I know. I still have the tank."

He looked at her then, really looked, and she saw it: the consideration, the calculus. He was free now. But the math had changed. She wasn't twenty-nine anymore, dizzy with inappropriate desire and the arrogance of youth. She was forty-one, tired of being someone's option rather than choice.

"You should go," she said. "Your daughter needs you."

He followed her gaze to the young woman in black, weeping silently. David's daughter—his wife's daughter, technically, though he'd raised her since she was three.

The goldfish had lived seven years. Their relationship had lasted seven months. Some things endured longer than they should.

"I kept your hat," he said suddenly. "From that night."

"Burn it."

She set down her punch, orange slice and all, and walked out into the gray afternoon. Some funerals were for the dead, and some were for the living who needed to learn how to stop haunting their own lives.