The Goldfish in the Glass

Elara stood at the edge of the rooftop infinity pool, her champagne glass catching the last light of sunset. The sky had burned itself down to a bruised orange, the color of old bruises and the lipstick she'd stopped wearing three years ago.

Behind her, the catering staff arranged platters of tropical fruit—sliced papaya glistening like something too intimate for a corporate retirement party. She'd been sleeping with her boss for six months. Tonight, he was retiring with his wife of thirty years, and Elara was supposed to smile about it.

"You're thinking too loud," said a voice beside her.

She turned. It was Julian, the IT guy who always looked like he knew things he shouldn't. He was eating a wedge of papaya from a tiny plate, juice staining his lower lip.

"I'm not thinking anything."

"You're swimming in it," he said. "Whatever it is."

She looked at the pool, where a lone goldfish—someone's abandoned party favor, perhaps—navigated the chlorinated water with bewildered determination. It kept returning to the surface, opening and closing its mouth in silent speech.

"My mother had a goldfish once," Elara found herself saying. "Lived for seven years in a bowl on her nightstand. She used to talk to it about my father. How he left, how he came back, how he left again. Like the fish was some kind of therapist. Or a sphinx, riddling through her grief."

Julian considered this. "Did it help?"

"The fish died the same day he finally left for good."

"Correlation," Julian said, "is a cruel thing to mistake for meaning."

She looked at him—really looked at him—for the first time. He had intelligent hands, long-fingered and precise. The kind of hands that would know exactly what they were doing, touching a woman.

"Are you hitting on me at my boss's retirement party?"

"I'm observing," he said, "that you've been standing at the edge of this pool for twenty minutes, looking like you might join the goldfish. I thought you might prefer conversation to chlorine."

Below them, the goldfish broke the surface again, gasping.

"He's not coming back," Elara said. "David. He's taking the consulting gig in Dubai."

"I know," said Julian. "I set up his video conferencing."

The goldfish sank back into the darkening water, a tiny orange heartbeat in the blue. Somewhere, David's retirement speech was beginning. Applause rippled like heat.

"I have papaya," Julian offered, holding out his plate. "And I know what you're really swimming toward."

She took a piece. It was sweet, slightly fermented, perfect. "What's that?"

"The rest of your life."