The Goldfish Funeral

Elise stood at the kitchen counter, chopping spinach with aggressive precision. The knife hit the cutting board with a sharp thwack that echoed in the silent apartment. Outside, palm fronds brushed against the window in the evening breeze, a familiar sound that used to comfort her.

Marcus sat at the table, running his thumb along the rim of his wineglass. He hadn't spoken since coming home, though Elise could see his reflection in the darkened window—disheveled hair, eyes fixed on some middle distance.

"The fish is dead," he said finally.

Elise paused. "What?"

"The goldfish. He's dead." Marcus gestured vaguely toward the small bowl on the counter. "Been floating for hours."

She turned to look. Sure enough, the tiny orange shape bobbed at the surface, just another thing in their lives that had stopped moving. They'd bought it three months ago, during that brief period of trying to be better people—making healthy dinners, buying houseplants, acquiring a pet. The spinach had been part of that too, always ending up slimy in the crisper drawer.

"We should flush it," Elise said. "Or bury it. Whatever you do with dead fish."

Marcus laughed, a dry sound. "There's an entire ceremony for this, you know. In some cultures. Proper rites. Proper goodbye."

He stood up, his chair scraping loudly against the floor. For a moment, Elise thought he might come to her, wrap his arms around her waist like he used to. Instead, he walked to the window and pressed his palm against the glass.

"I'm not coming back," he said. "After the business trip."

The spinach under Elise's knife went still. She could see it coming—the years of running away from conversations, the slow attrition of affection, the way they'd become experts at occupying the same room without really seeing each other.

"I know," she said. "I've known for months."

Marcus turned. His hair caught the light, and she suddenly remembered how she used to run her fingers through it, how she'd memorized every strand. That felt like belonging to a different person entirely.

"Then why are we still doing this?" he asked. "The dinners. The fish. The pretending."

Elise set down the knife. "Because some endings deserve proper rites too."

She nodded toward the goldfish bobbing in its bowl, a tiny orange martyr to their failed attempts at renewal. Marcus looked at it, then at her, and for the first time in months, he really saw her.

"Tomorrow," she said, "we'll have a funeral. We'll say goodbye properly. And then you can go."

"Just like that?"

"Just like that."

Outside, the palm tree whispered against the glass. In the morning, there would be spinach to discard and a fish to bury, but tonight, there was still the quiet ceremony of things ending exactly as they should.