The Goldfish at the Water's Edge

Elena stood at the kitchen sink at 2 AM, swallowing her third vitamin of the night. The prenatal ones were enormous, horse pills that caught in her throat, but she'd stopped trying to reason with her body months ago. It wanted what it wanted.

The goldfish bowl on the counter caught the moonlight, casting wavering patterns on the ceiling. Marcus had brought it home six months ago—'practice,' he'd said, half-joking, 'for when we're ready.' Goldie had outlasted their fertility treatments, their fights in bathroom stalls, the quiet accumulation of失望 that lived in the space between their bodies in bed. Now Marcus was gone, moved out last Tuesday while she was at work, and the fish remained.

She filled a glass with water from the tap, watching the glass fog with condensation. Her palm pressed against the cool surface, her lifeline visible through the water—a fortune teller in Bangkok had told her she'd have two children. She'd been twenty-two, backpacking alone after college, believing in futures.

The bathroom door opened. Her sister stood there, eyes rimmed red from crying. 'He called me.'

Elena turned, water dripping from her hand onto the linoleum. 'He wants the fish.'

'He doesn't want the fish, Elena. He wants to know if you're okay.'

The goldfish swam to the surface, mouth opening and closing in silent repetition. Elena thought about how they say goldfish have three-second memories, how they'd keep swimming the same patterns without recognizing they'd been there before. She envied that.

'Tell him I'm fine,' she said, dropping the last vitamin into the garbage. 'Tell him I'm starting over.'