The Goldfish's Orbit

Elena stood before the goldfish tank at 2 AM, the only light coming from the streetlamps outside and her phone screen. The fish — a single, orange comet — swam in endless circles, its three-second memory a kind of mercy she wished she could borrow.

Behind her, the ethernet cable from her laptop to the wall stretched across her apartment floor like a lifeline she'd been too afraid to cut. Three hours ago, Marcus had called. Again. He was in Chicago with his colleagues, drunk and vague about when he'd be home. The fourth time this week.

The first fork of lightning illuminated her apartment, casting shadows that stretched like fingers across her walls. She watched the goldfish continue its orbit, undisturbed.

She could have been a sphinx, she thought. Enigmatic. Silent. Instead she was just someone who answered emails at 2 AM while her boyfriend lived in another city and their relationship died by inches.

The lightning struck again, closer now, and for a moment the goldfish transformed into a streak of pure gold in the dark water. It struck her suddenly: she was circling just like this fish, believing the boundaries of her tank were the boundaries of the world. Outside the glass, there was an ocean.

Her phone buzzed. Marcus.

Elena let it ring. She typed her resignation letter instead — not to Marcus, she'd done that in her head a thousand times — but to the job that kept her tethered to this apartment, this city, this waiting game. The cable wasn't holding her back anymore. She was.

The goldfish swam on, oblivious. Outside, the storm broke.

Elena pressed send.