The Goldfish in the Chlorine

The coaxial cable lay severed on the nightstand like a dead snake, its copper guts exposed to the fluorescent hum of Room 207. Sarah had cut it three hours ago when she found herself weeping over an infomercial at 3 AM, something about revolutionary blender technology that promised to transform her life. The woman on screen had looked so certain. So unlike Sarah herself, who had spent the last decade becoming an expert in the art of not knowing what she wanted.

Now she stood at the edge of the motel pool at dawn, cigarette in hand, watching the water distort the early light. A goldfish—some abandoned pet left to fend for itself—darted beneath the surface, flashes of impossible orange in the chemical blue. It kept swimming to the edge, turning back. Testing boundaries that no longer existed.

"That's me," Sarah said aloud.

"Talking to fish now?" The voice came from behind her. A man in a maintenance uniform, pushing a cart cleaning supplies. His nametag read ROBERT. "I'd ask if you're okay, but nobody comes to a Super 8 in Tuscon at 5 AM because they're okay."

Sarah almost laughed. Instead, she said: "My best friend—the woman who was supposed to be my maid of honor, actually—she told me once that we're all just looking for someone who'll witness our lives. Make us feel like we actually happened. I thought I found that. I really did."

Robert leaned against his cart. A dog barked somewhere in the distance, lonely and persistent.

"My wife died two years ago," Robert said quietly. "Breast cancer. She made me promise to get a dog afterward. Said I needed something that needed me back. Got a golden retriever. Sometimes I look at him and think—this creature loves me. Not because of what I can give him. Not because I'm successful or funny or worth loving. He just loves me. That's it."

Sarah crushed her cigarette under her heel. "And that's enough?"

"It's something."

The goldfish broke the surface, gasping.

"He's going to die," Sarah said.

"Yeah," said Robert. "Probably. But not today."

Sarah looked at the cable on her nightstand later. No more witness to her late-night despair. No more blender infomercials to map her failures against. Just herself, room 207, and a day she hadn't planned for. She walked to the pet store down the street and bought a small glass bowl. When she returned, she netted the goldfish from the pool, water sloshing onto her jeans, and carried it to her car.

"You and me both," she whispered, and drove north toward a future she couldn't see but was suddenly, violently willing to touch.