The Goldfish in the Glass Bowl

Marcus moves through the office like a fox — all sharp angles and sudden bursts of energy, his copper hair catching the fluorescent lights. He's the new senior analyst, and I should know better than to notice how his shirts fit, but at forty-two, I've apparently learned nothing.

There's a goldfish bowl on his desk, a single orange fish circling endlessly in its six-inch world. I catch myself staring at it during meetings, mesmerized by its aimless loops, trapped in clear water with nowhere to hide.

"Memory of a fish," he'd said when I asked, leaning too close. "Three seconds, then it's all new again. Must be nice."

I'd laughed. I'd stayed late. I'd let him walk me to my car.

Now I'm the spy in my own marriage, checking Richard's phone while he showers, noticing how he asks about my day with careful, measured interest. The spinach I bought on Tuesday sits wilting in the refrigerator drawer, its leaves collapsing like something that tried too hard to stay fresh.

Marcus sends me texts I delete immediately. His goldfish watches me with its unblinking eye when I pass his desk, swimming the same loop, remembering nothing. I envy it.

Tonight Richard asked what I was thinking about, and I said "nothing." He nodded like he believed me, or maybe like he'd stopped asking what that means. The goldfish circles. The fox grins across the office. Somewhere a door is closing, and I'm the one who locked it.

Three seconds of memory. Then it's all new again. Must be nice.