The Last Goldfish of Autumn

Martha stood before the mirror, pulling at the silver strands in her hair. At fifty-three, she'd stopped caring about the dye years ago, but Richard had always preferred her blonde.

The tank sat on the bookshelf behind her, one lonely goldfish swimming in lazy circles. Their daughter had left for college three years ago, leaving behind everything she couldn't fit into her life anymore — including this fish, which refused to die despite Martha's passive neglect.

She thought about Richard's last words to her, something about how she'd become a sphinx in their marriage — inscrutable, distant, guarding secrets she wouldn't share. The irony wasn't lost on her. He'd been the one having the affair for two years, carrying on with his office assistant while Martha made dinner and hosted their friends and pretended not to notice the late nights, the changed passwords, the sudden interest in elliptical machines.

The weight of it was a beast she'd learned to bear, hibernating through the long winter of their separation, emerging only when necessary. Her friends had urged her to fight, to demand more, but she'd found herself strangely liberated by the collapse. No more pretense. No more performing happiness for an audience of one.

She dropped the hairbrush on the counter. The goldfish swam to the surface, mouth opening and closing in silent repetition, and she realized she'd been doing the same thing for years — asking questions she already knew the answers to, performing confusion she didn't feel, keeping alive a mystery that had been solved long ago.

Some riddles solve themselves when you stop caring about the answer.

She picked up her phone and dialed her lawyer. The time for sphinx-like silence was over.