The Last Goldfish in the Bowl

Margaret stood by the moving box, watching Carlos wrap the ceramic goldfish bowl in newspaper. Their apartment had shrunk over the past three years, but now, in the final hours, it felt cavernous. Each item he packed was another admission they'd failed.

"What about Puddles?" she asked, gesturing to the orange goldfish floating lazily in its temporary home—a mixing bowl on the counter.

Carlos didn't look up. "You take him. I'm moving into a corporate place. No pets."

"He was your anniversary present."

"And look how well that turned out."

Outside their fifth-floor window, a palm tree swayed in the California twilight, fronds like tired fingers waving goodbye. Margaret had loved that tree when they first viewed the apartment. She'd imagined drinking wine on the balcony while Carlos played guitar. Instead, the balcony had become a repository for broken things and the cable box that never worked right.

"You're taking the cat?" she asked, though she already knew the answer.

"Barnaby comes with me. You're allergic, remember?"

"I took pills for him."

"And still sneezed every night." Carlos finally looked at her, his expression unreadable. "Why make this harder than it needs to be?"

Margaret laughed, short and sharp. "Harder? We're dividing three years of accumulated evidence that we shouldn't have made it past month three. The hard part was pretending otherwise."

She watched the goldfish surface, gulp air, sink again. Barnaby, their tabby, wound around Carlos's legs, purring loudly—a traitor to the cause.

"You know what's funny?" Margaret said. "I always thought we'd be the ones to make it. Everyone else got divorced, hooked up with coworkers, settled for less. We were supposed to be different."

"Different doesn't mean happy, Meg." Carlos sealed the box with tape that ripped loudly in the sudden quiet. "Different just means you fail in unique ways."

The cable guy was coming in the morning to disconnect service. Margaret would have to return the boxes. Carlos would have to change his mailing address for the third time in five years. The goldfish would swim in circles in a new apartment, oblivious to the irony of a creature living in a bowl named Puddles.

She picked up the mixing bowl. "You know what I'll miss most?"

"What?"

"The way you'd pretend to be asleep when I came to bed after a late shift. Like lying there beside me, awake and silent, was easier than talking about whatever was wrong."

Carlos's jaw tightened. He picked up the cat, who meowed once, disappointed. "I'll send someone for the rest of the boxes."

"Fine."

"Fine."

Margaret stood in their emptying living room, holding a fishbowl, watching the palm tree shadow stretch across the floor where they'd argued about money, and dreams, and whether love was enough when you were lonely together. The goldfish surfaced again, mouth opening and closing in silent commentary.

"You know," she said to the empty doorway, "Barnaby always did prefer you anyway."

The fish swam another circle. Some things, even with nowhere else to go, just kept swimming.