The Goldfish in the Chlorine

The hat was ridiculous, and Richard knew it. A fedora, at forty-five, at a company pool party in Los Angeles. But it covered the thinning patches that had been migrating across his scalp like slow-moving glaciers, and appearances mattered here. Even in retirement.

He stood by the edge of the pool, nursing a gin and tonic that was mostly tonic now, watching his former colleagues cannonball into the chlorinated blue. Twenty years at the firm, and this was what he had to show for it: a gold watch, a modest pension, and the hollow feeling that he'd lived someone else's life entirely.

"Richard!" Sarah called from the pool, her hair slicked back wet against her skull. She was the one who'd gotten him the job, two decades fresh out of business school, all ambition and sharp edges. Now she was CEO, and he was—what? Spare parts?

A young woman floated on her back nearby, a goldfish tattooed on her shoulder, its orange scales distorted by the water's refraction. It reminded him of their anniversary dinner last week. Janet had cried into her risotto about how they'd become roommates who happened to sleep in the same bed. The goldfish in their hallway aquarium, named Freedom for reasons he couldn't remember, had watched them eat in silence.

The palm tree above him shed a frond that splashed into the pool. Nobody noticed.

"You coming in?" Sarah asked, swimming to the edge.

Richard looked at his reflection in the water—hat, tired eyes, the mouth that had forgotten how to smile without effort. "No," he said. "Think I'll just watch."

"You always were just watching," she said, not unkindly, and swam away.

He touched the gold watch on his wrist. Twenty years, and he was still standing at the edge of the pool, fully dressed, watching everyone else swim. The goldfish tattoo broke the surface briefly, then submerged again. Richard finished his drink and adjusted his hat. Some fish were meant to stay in the bowl.