The Last Goldfish

Margaret stood in the center of the living room, watching Richard coil the HDMI cable like a snake preparing to strike. Their five-year-old daughter's goldfish, Bubbles, swam lazy circles in its bowl on the windowsill, oblivious to the dissolution unfolding around it.

"You're taking the television?" Margaret asked, though she already knew the answer. Richard hadn't looked her in the eyes since he'd confessed to the affair three weeks ago—since the lightning storm that had illuminated his phone screen at 3 AM, the message from HER glowing like an accusation.

"It's mine," Richard said, finally meeting her gaze. "I bought it."

"So did you buy the fish?" She gestured toward Bubbles. "Emma's fish. You going to wrap that in bubble wrap too?"

Richard's jaw tightened. They'd had this conversation before—about what belonged to whom, about the arithmetic of five years reduced to itemized lists and custody arrangements. The goldfish had been Emma's fourth birthday present, chosen because Richard had declared dogs too much responsibility, cats too allergenic. A low-stakes starter pet, he'd called it. Now it was the only living thing that still lived between them.

Outside, thunder cracked. The weather report had warned of severe storms, but neither had bothered to check. They were too busy arguing about whose coffee maker was whose, who got the kitchen table they'd picked out together on that rainy Sunday in Portland.

"Take the television," Margaret said. "Take the cable box. Take the goddamn PlayStation." Her voice cracked. "But leave the fish."

Richard paused, his hand hovering over the power strip. For a moment, she thought he might reach for her instead. But then lightning flashed again, harsh and unforgiving, and in its harsh illumination she saw the resolve settle back into his features.

"Fine," he said, and unplugged the television.

Margaret watched him carry it to the door, the black screen reflecting her distorted face. When the door clicked shut behind him, she walked to the fishbowl. Bubbles pressed against the glass, its mouth opening and closing in silent repetition.

"Well," she whispered to the empty room. "It's just us now."

She pressed her finger to the glass. The fish followed it, trailing across its artificial world. Outside, the rain began to fall, washing away whatever remained of the life they'd built together.