The Goldfish Funeral

The thunderstorm broke just as Maya's train pulled into the station. She hadn't seen Elena in three years, not since the night everything fell apart over unpaid rent and accusations neither would fully articulate.

Now here she was, at Elena's mother's funeral of all places, clutching a black umbrella like a weapon. The church was packed with people Elena's mother had actually known — neighbors, bridge club ladies, the accountant who'd done their taxes for decades. Maya stood in the back, watching Elena's composed face as she greeted mourners. That stupid wide-brimmed hat Elena was wearing — the one they'd bought together on that impulsively planned trip to New Orleans — kept tipping to the side with each sympathetic nod.

Outside, between the service and the burial, Maya found herself smoking near the church garden fountain, watching koi fish circle lazily in the stagnant water. Elena appeared beside her, wordless, pulling a pack from her purse.

"Remember the goldfish?" Elena asked suddenly, exhaling smoke that disappeared instantly in the wind. "How we thought we were so grown-up, having pets in that shitty first apartment?"

Maya remembered. They'd gone through seven goldfish in six months. Each death had felt like a personal failure, a harbinger of their own inability to keep anything alive.

"They were supposed to be easy," Maya said. "Low maintenance. That's what the pet store guy said."

"Everything's supposed to be easy," Elena laughed bitterly, then sobered. "I'm sorry I never paid you back for that last month's rent. I know that's —"

"It's not about the money."

Lightning cracked across the sky, sudden and white-hot. For a moment, the whole world seemed illuminated, every harsh truth laid bare. They were thirty-two years old, standing in the rain at a funeral, still unable to say what actually needed saying.

"I missed you," Maya said, and the words felt like climbing out of deep water.

Elena's hand found hers, squeezing tight. "Me too. Every time I walked past that empty apartment building where we used to live, I thought about turning around. But I thought you'd moved on. Made better friends."

"There are no better friends," Maya said. "Just easier ones."

They stood there until the rain stopped, two former best friends who'd somehow survived each other's abandonment, while somewhere in that church garden pond, the fish kept swimming in circles, waiting for someone to finally remember to feed them.