The Last Cable Bill

The goldfish had outlived them all. Three apartments, two mortgages, and one marriage later, Leonard still floated in his bowl on the kitchen counter, orange and indifferent, while Mara taped shut the last box.

"The cable company wants to know whose name to put on the new account," Mara said, not looking up from the tape dispenser.

"Yours," said Daniel. "You watch more TV."

She laughed — a dry, surprised sound. "That's what you're taking from twelve years? That I watch more television?"

The dog, Bernie, sensed it. He'd been pacing for days, his golden retriever optimism finally fracturing into something closer to intuition. Now he sat between them, tail thumping a hesitant rhythm against the hardwood, as if his loyalty might somehow glue everything back together.

Daniel remembered the day they'd adopted Bernie, how they'd argued over the name. She'd wanted Bear. He'd wanted something friendlier. They'd compromised on a human name for an animal who would love them unconditionally, which was more than they could say for themselves.

"I never asked you to be my friend," she said quietly.

The words hung there, heavy and wrong. Friend was such a small word for what they'd been — witnesses to each other's worst moments, architects of a shared history that now had to be divided like assets. The goldfish swam to the surface, opened and closed his mouth in silent circles.

"I know," Daniel said. "That's the problem."

She nodded, once, and went back to taping the box. Outside, the building's cable connection blinked its little lights, data streaming to everyone else, everyone who still had someone to stream with.

The goldfish would go with her. Daniel didn't want the responsibility of being the only thing left that remembered them together.

"You'll take Bernie?" she asked.

He nodded, and the dog finally settled, choosing his side. Some choices were easier than others.

Later, he would realize that friends — true friends — were people who knew when to walk away, and when to stay. They were people who could bear witness to your unraveling without trying to fix it. They were rare as goldfish who lived forever, and just as indifferent to your pain.

Mara picked up Leonard's bowl. The water didn't ripple.

"Goodbye, Daniel," she said.

"Goodbye, Mara," he said. And meant it.