The Goldfish on the 42nd Floor

Ellen swallowed her daily **vitamin** with lukewarm coffee, staring at the man across the breakfast table. They'd been together seven years, and lately she felt like she was living with a **zombie**—Mark moved through their apartment with the hollow-eyed shuffle of the undead, checking his phone before he even brushed his teeth. He used to look at her like she was the only woman in the room. Now she wondered if he remembered what color her eyes were.

"Big presentation today," he mumbled, not looking up from his cereal.

"Good luck," she said, but the words felt like stones in her throat. The **bull** in the corner office—her father's nickname for Mark's boss, not that Mark ever got the reference—had been working him toward burnout for months. Mark came home smelling of other people's breath and cheap office lighting, his tie loosened and his spirit somehow smaller than it had been that morning.

Their **goldfish**, Gerald, floated near the glass surface of his bowl, mouth opening and closing in silent repetition. Ellen had bought him on impulse three years ago after a miscarriage she'd never told Mark about, needing something alive to care for when her own body felt like a betrayal. Sometimes she envied Gerald's three-second memory.

That afternoon, **lightning** struck the transformer down the street. The power went out, and Mark came home early to find her sitting in the dark with a glass of wine, watching Gerald catch random specks of light.

"We need to talk," he said, and for the first time in months, his eyes actually focused on hers.

She set down her glass. "I know."

He sank onto the couch beside her, and when he reached for her hand, his palm was warm and alive. "I think I died somewhere along the way, El. But I felt something when the lights went out today—like I woke up."

Gerald swam to the front of his bowl, mouth working, and Ellen squeezed Mark's hand, feeling something flicker in her chest that she'd thought was gone forever. Not yet. Not yet.