The Last Goldfish

The goldfish hovered at the glass edge, its orange scales dull in the emergency lights' amber glow. Sarah watched it for what felt like hours, though her phone's shattered screen suggested only minutes had passed since the lightning struck the transformer down the street.

"You're not even packed," Marcus said from the doorway. His voice carried that same careful tone he'd used three months ago when he told her he'd met someone else. "The storm's getting worse. The news says another cable is down."

The fish opened and closed its mouth, a silent plea in the oxygen-deprived water. Sarah had rescued it from their shared apartment two weeks ago—a final petty theft, like the coffee mug she'd taken, the books she'd borrowed and never returned. Small things she could claim were hers.

"I'm thinking," she said.

"About what?"

"About how fish are supposed to have three-second memories." She finally looked at him. Marcus was wearing the coat she'd bought him for Christmas. The tags were still on it—he'd never worn it until now, until the building was being evacuated and the world was ending. "Must be nice. To just forget everything. To swim in circles and think it's the first time, every time."

Marcus stepped into the room. The distant rumble of thunder vibrated through the floorboards. Another flash of lightning illuminated his face—the same face she'd woken up to for seven years, now foreign as a stranger's.

"I never meant to hurt you," he said.

"I know." She reached for the fishbowl. "That's almost worse."

The emergency lights flickered. The power had been out since noon, but the backup generator was failing too. Soon it would be completely dark. Soon she'd have to leave this apartment she'd already signed the lease for alone, carrying a fishbowl through a city that was somehow still moving, still indifferent, even as the sky cracked open.

"Take the fish," Marcus said.

"What?"

"It's yours. In the divorce papers, you circled it. Said it was technically yours because your sister gave it to us." He opened his wallet, removed a folded document. "I already signed. Everything you circled. Even the coffee maker. Even this stupid fish."

Sarah stared at the paper. Then at the fish. Then at Marcus, who was already turning toward the door.

"Wait," she said.

He paused.

"You should take it. The fish."

"Why?"

"Because," she said, as another bolt of lightning turned the window into a mirror, "sometimes the thing that stays is worse than the thing that leaves."