The Last Goldfish

The cable guy was three hours late, and Marcus had spent every minute of them staring at the goldfish bowl on the kitchen counter. Sarah's goldfish—she'd named itBubble, because she wasn't clever with names, just present. It swam in endless circles, its orange scales catching the morning light that slanted through dusty blinds.

He should have taken the fish when she left. She'd offered, her voice tight and careful, the way it had been for months. But he'd said no, said he couldn't take care of a living thing when he could barely take care of himself. Bullshit, of course. He could have taken it. He just wanted her to have to come back. Even if it was just for a fish.

The doorbell rang.

The cable technician was young, maybe twenty-five, with knuckles tattooed and eyes that had seen too many apartments filled with other people's lives. "Cable's out?" he asked, already moving toward the TV stand like he'd been there before.

"Yeah. Since the breakup."

The guy paused, hand hovering over the coaxial cable. "Since the what?"

"Since she left. I haven't watched TV since. Just stared at the wall. Or the fish."

The technician turned. For a moment, they looked at each other—two men in a kitchen that smelled like coffee and regret. Then the guy shrugged, got down on one knee, started working with efficient, calloused hands.

"She left the fish," Marcus said, because he had to say something to someone who wasn't her.

"Women do that. My ex took the TV. Left me with a hamster that died two weeks later."

"Is that supposed to make me feel better?"

"No man, it's supposed to make you feel less alone in it."

The cable was reconnected. The guy packed up his tools, wiped grease onto his pants. Marcus paid him, feeling like he was paying for therapy instead of entertainment.

"Hey," the guy said at the door. "Fish food's on the top shelf of the pantry. She told me before she left, said she put it there so you wouldn't have to look for it. Said you'd probably forget otherwise."

Marcus stood there long after the door closed. Then he found the fish food, sprinkled some flakes into the bowl. The fish surfaced, mouth breaking the water, and he thought about how Sarah must have stood in this exact spot, planning for a future she wouldn't be part of.

The TV worked now. He turned it on, found a nature documentary about animals that stayed together after mating died. He watched until the sun went down, and when it did, he finally felt something other than the weight of his own stubbornness.