The Goldfish Years

Elena watched her husband's reflection in the bathroom mirror. Thomas was at the sink, trimming his hair—salt now dominating the pepper, though he'd never admit it. The scissors made a crisp, rhythmic sound. She remembered when she'd run her fingers through those thick waves at twenty-two, back when they'd saved for three months just to buy a defective goldfish tank that leaked onto their first apartment's hardwood floor.

"You're staring," he said, not turning around. The clumps of dark hair fell into the sink like dead things.

"Just thinking."

"About?"

"The goldfish."

Thomas paused. "That was thirty years ago, El."

"I know."

Their dog, Barnaby—a golden retriever they'd adopted after the children left—nudged her knee with his wet nose. He was aging too, his muzzle gone white, hips stiff. Another living thing counting down.

She'd taken up swimming at the community center last spring. Something about the weightlessness, the blue light underwater, the way her body moved through something thicker than air. It was the only place she didn't feel like she was carrying everyone's unfinished business. Thomas called it her midlife crisis. She called it the first thing that was just hers since before the kids were born.

"I'm going for a run," she said, though she wasn't.

"At sunset?" He finally met her eyes in the mirror's reflection. "You hate running in the dark."

That was the problem, wasn't it? He thought he still knew her.

Barnaby limped after her as she walked to the door. Outside, the sky bruised purple at the edges. The neighborhood was quiet—everyone inside, eating dinner together, watching television, pretending they weren't all just swimming through the dark until something else happened.

She got in her car instead. Drove to the community center. The pool was empty except for one lane light casting long shadows on the water.

The lifeguard looked up from his phone. "Closing in ten."

"Just need to clear my head."

She swam laps until her muscles burned, until she couldn't tell if the water on her face was from the pool or her own eyes. Floating on her back at the end, staring at the high ceiling, she thought about how a goldfish's memory span had been disproven—how they actually remembered things, how they learned, how they suffered and loved and forgot in their tiny kingdoms.

She'd be forty-eight next month. Thomas would be fifty. They'd been together more than half their lives.

Driving home, she saw him sitting on the front porch with Barnaby, both of them watching the street. Waiting.

She parked. Got out. The air was cool now, carrying the smell of someone's fire.

"You're not running," he said as she approached.

"No."

He stood up, stiff knees popping. Barnaby thumped his tail against the porch steps.

"We should get another fish," he said quietly. "A proper tank this time."

She looked at this man she'd spent decades with, whose hair was falling out, whose shoulders were slumped, who was trying.

"Okay," she said. "Let's do that."

Inside, their marriage felt suddenly like water—buoyant, familiar, enough to keep them both from drowning. For now.