The Goldfish in the Cable Box

The cable guy was late, which was typical, but Maya had stopped caring about punctuality three months ago when Daniel moved out. She sat on the living room floor, surrounded by boxed memories, her hair falling into her eyes in unwashed strands she hadn't bothered to tie back.

"Ma'am?" The cable guy stood in the doorway, young and uncomfortably polite. "I'm here to reconnect your service."

Maya gestured toward the wall where the coaxial cable dangled like a dead snake. "Whatever. Just make it work."

He worked efficiently, his back to her, and she found herself watching the way his muscles moved under his company-issued shirt. It had been so long since she'd touched anyone with intention.

"Hey," he said, turning around suddenly. "Is that... is that a goldfish in there?"

She followed his gaze to the open box on the counter. Inside, a small bowl held a solitary orange goldfish, its mouth opening and closing in silent desperate repetition.

"His name's Gerald," she said, surprised by how much her voice cracked. "Daniel won him at a carnival. Six years ago. He couldn't keep him at his place."

The cable guy nodded, like this made perfect sense. "My ex left me with her cat. I'm allergic."

They stood there, two strangers bound by the things others had left behind, swimming through the wreckage of relationships that had promised forever.

"You know," she said, "I keep waiting for him to die. Gerald, I mean. It would be easier."

"But he keeps swimming?"

"Yeah. He just keeps swimming."

The cable guy packed up his tools, then paused at the door. "There's a diner down the street. Good coffee. I get off in an hour."

Maya looked at Gerald, still opening and closing his mouth in that endless silent prayer, and then at her reflection in the darkened television screen—hair wild, eyes tired, heart somehow still beating.

"I might be there," she said.

And for the first time in months, she meant it.