The Goldfish Bowl

I check his iPhone compulsively now, my fingers tracing the familiar path through his messages like a thief in my own home. The spy game began with innocent curiosity six months ago — what jokes did he share with his brother? — but it's metastasized into something darker, a ritual that leaves me hollowed out each evening when he falls asleep beside me.

Our goldfish, Barry, floats near the surface of his bowl, his orange scales dull in the kitchen's fluorescent light. Sarah got him as a joke three years ago — "a practice child for when we're ready" — but Barry has outlasted our willingness to try. His three-second memory used to seem like a cruel limitation. Now it feels like mercy. I wish I could forget what I've seen.

I'm chopping spinach for dinner, the knife rhythmically slicing through emerald leaves, when Mark walks in. He's whistling that tuneless melody he always does when he's had a good day at the firm. He wraps his arms around my waist, his chin on my shoulder, and I stiffen despite myself.

"What's for dinner?"

"Spinach salad. Again."

"Perfect." He kisses my neck, and I want to scream. The notification from his phone glows on the counter — "Her" — and my stomach turns.

The vitamin supplements I started taking last month sit on the windowsill, their promise of better health, better energy, better ME mocking my inability to fix what's broken between us. I swallow one each morning with the grim determination of someone performing ritual penance.

"You've been distant," Mark says later, over our salad. Barry's bowl reflects the dining room light, creating dancing patterns on the wall like fish swimming through air.

"I'm fine."

"Are you?" His eyes search mine, and I see it then — the same wariness I feel. He's hiding something too.

Maybe we're both spies now. Maybe marriage is just surveillance with benefits.

Barry gulps at the surface of his bowl, his mouth opening and closing in that absurd, helpless way. I want to tell Mark everything, but instead I take another bite of spinach, chew slowly, and swallow the bitter truth along with it. Maybe goldfish have the right idea after all — keep swimming, keep forgetting, keep hoping the next time around the food will actually be real.