The Goldfish Witness

The goldfish on our kitchen counter was the only witness to the quiet destruction of our marriage. Mark had bought it for our fifth anniversary—a splash of living color in our gray Chicago apartment. Now it circled its bowl, mouth opening and closing, while I watched from the doorway, too weary to even feed it.

"You're not eating the spinach," Mark said, not looking up from his phone. He'd started cooking again, suddenly concerned with nutrition, with wellness, with all the things he'd spent five years ignoring. The spinach sat wilted on my plate, innocent and green.

"I'm not hungry."

The vitamin bottles lined the windowsill now—B12, D3, magnesium, a rainbow of promises I'd never asked him to make. He'd brought them home two weeks ago after I told him I was leaving, as if supplements could fix what ten years of neglect had broken.

"I read something about vitamin deficiencies," he said. "Depression, fatigue. Maybe that's why you've been so..." He waved his hand, searching for the word.

"So distant?" I supplied. "So ready to pack my bags and never come back?"

He finally looked up. The orange light of late afternoon caught the silver at his temples. We'd grown old together without meaning to.

"It's her, isn't it?" I said. "The one from the gym. The one who drinks green juice and talks about mindfulness."

"Sarah," he said, and the way he said it—soft, careful—told me everything.

The goldfish swam to the surface, expecting food that wasn't coming. I thought about how goldfish are supposed to have terrible memories, but this one would remember this moment better than either of us would. It would remember the silence stretching between us, the way Mark's hands trembled when he reached for my hand, the way I pulled away.

"I'm leaving tomorrow," I said.

"Stay for dinner," he offered. "I bought those oranges you like from the market."

The oranges sat in a bowl on the counter, bright and perfect. He remembered that much, at least.

"No," I said. "Some things you can't fix with vitamins and fresh fruit."

I walked to the counter, sprinkled flakes into the fishbowl. The goldfish darted to the surface, eager and alive.

"Take care of him," I said.

"Come back," Mark said.

I left anyway.