The Last Goldfish

The spinach lay wilted in the colander, like something that had given up. Martin stood at the sink, running cold water over the limp leaves, watching the water spiral down the drain. Behind him, Elena moved through the kitchen with that terrible quiet she'd developed over the past three months—the silence of someone mentally packing boxes.

"We're out of wine," she said, not really asking.

"There's water in the pitcher."

"Always practical." She opened the fridge door, letting its light wash over them both. "Remember when we used to be friends first? Before everything got complicated?"

Martin turned off the tap. The spinach dripped. "I'm still your friend, Elena."

"Are you?" She leaned against the counter, arms crossed. "Friends don't look at each other across dinner tables like they're calculating exit strategies. Friends don't sleep in separate rooms and call it 'respect for different schedules.'"

In the corner of the kitchen, the goldfish bowl sat on its stand. Leonard, their unsuspecting audience of one, swam his endless circles, opening and closing his mouth in silent commentary. Martin had won him at a company picnic six years ago, back when he still believed in prizes you couldn't return.

"What do you want me to say?" Martin asked.

"Nothing." Elena pushed off from the counter. "That's the problem. There's nothing left to say. We're like Leonard out there—swimming in circles, forgetting we're in a bowl, thinking we're going somewhere when we're just ... going."

Martin looked at the goldfish. Looked at the spinach. Looked at the woman he'd promised to grow old with, who now stood before him in a sweater he'd never seen before, wearing perfume he didn't recognize.

"I'll order pizza," he said.

Elena smiled—a small, tired thing. "Sure. That's us, isn't it? Always going back to what's easy."

She left the kitchen, and Martin turned the water back on, watching it disappear, wondering how many times you could rinse something clean before it simply fell apart in your hands.