The Goldfish in the Glass

Maya stood before the bathroom mirror, scissors hovering at her temple. Three years of marriage dissolved into silver at her feet. Tom had loved her hair long—said it reminded him of wheat fields he'd never actually seen. She cut another chunk, watching it fall like surrender.

Downstairs, the goldfish circled his bowl, orange scales flashing in the afternoon light. Tom's retirement gift after he'd been let go from the firm. 'Something low maintenance,' he'd promised. The fish had outlasted them both.

She'd walked in on him three weeks ago—early, because her flight had been cancelled. He'd been bent over the baseball scorecard, pen in hand, but it was the way his other hand rested on Sarah's shoulder that undid her. Not even passionate—comfortable. Like they'd been doing it for years while Maya lived her worst frequent-flyer existence, believing in something that had apparently expired years ago.

The worst part was the baseball. Tom had always claimed to hate sports. Called them primitive. Yet there he was, tracking statistics like his life depended on it, with a woman who probably knew the difference between a slider and a curveball.

Outside, a fox screamed—that unearthly cry that always sounded like a child in pain. Maya paused, scissors mid-air. The fox that lived in the ravine behind their subdivision, the one Tom had wanted to call animal control about when it killed their neighbor's chickens. 'They're pests,' he'd said.

She watched it now through the window, sleek and red-mouthed, carrying something small and limp across the lawn. Not a pest. Just hungry, doing what it needed to survive.

Maya set down the scissors. Her hair was choppy, uneven, but strangely light. Like shedding something that had been weighing her down for years.

She walked downstairs and fed the goldfish. Flakes spiraled through water, and she watched him eat, patient and persistent, circling his glass prison in endless loops. Tomorrow she'd take him to work, give him to the receptionist who'd been admiring his orange fins.

The fox screamed again from the ravine, closer this time. Maya stood at the sliding door, hand on the lock, and let it stay closed. Some things belonged outside. Some things, you let go before they could let go of you.