The Goldfish Bowl

The goldfish circled his glass bowl on Elena's desk, oblivious to the layoffs scheduled for Friday. Its orange scales caught the fluorescent light as Martin watched, remembering how she'd won it at the company picnic last summer—her first week as his junior analyst.

"You're not going to eat that spinach?" Martin asked, gesturing to her untouched salad.

Elena sighed, pushing the container away. "Not hungry. My mother keeps telling me I need to eat more greens. Says I look pale."

"You look tired, Elena."

She met his eyes across the conference table. The baseball hat she'd started wearing to cover her new haircut sat on the pile of severance packets he'd asked her to help prepare. She knew. Of course she knew.

"I was going to tell you tonight," he said quietly. "Over dinner."

"That you're eliminating my position?" Her voice didn't waver. "That the promotion you promised me last month—that I worked weekends for—is going to someone from corporate?"

"It's not personal—"

"It's always personal, Martin." She stood, gathering her things. The goldfish continued its endless circling. "My dad coached baseball for thirty years. Taught me you don't bench your players because someone new showed up with a fancier resume. You earn loyalty. You give it back."

"I'm trying to save this department—"

"You're saving yourself." She placed her hat on her head, brim low. "I'll be at my desk until five. Professionalism, right?"

Martin watched her go, the fluorescent hum suddenly deafening. He looked down at his own untouched lunch, the spinach sandwich he'd packed because his doctor had warned him about his blood pressure. The goldfish tapped against the glass, and Martin realized—with a sinking in his gut—that Elena had won the fish at the ring toss, that she'd named it Lucky, that she'd made him promise to take care of it if anything ever happened to her.

He stared at the severance packets, then at the oblivious fish circling its tiny world, and understood exactly what he'd become.