The Last Goodbye

Emma sat on the edge of the bathtub, watching the goldfish drift lazily through its bowl. Martin had bought it for her three weeks ago—some halfhearted apology for forgetting their anniversary again. The fish swam in endless circles, and she wondered if it felt trapped, or if endless motion was its version of peace.

Outside, the neighbor's dog barked at something invisible in the fog. Emma had always wanted a dog. Martin was allergic, or so he claimed. She was starting to realize that everything was either an allergy or an inconvenience with him.

Her phone buzzed. Marcus from work. Are we still meeting for drinks?

She'd been having an affair with Marcus for six months. It wasn't about love—it was about being seen, being heard, being anything other than Martin's afterthought.

Emma caught her reflection in the mirror. Her hair was falling out in clumps now. The stress, the chemotherapy, or perhaps just the sheer exhaustion of living two lives. She pulled her favorite hat low—Martin's old fishing hat, stolen from his closet years ago. It smelled like him: tobacco and hesitation and that particular brand of cologne that announced he was trying too hard.

She remembered their trip to Montana last summer, how they'd seen a bear at the edge of their campsite. Martin had frozen, utterly useless. It was Emma who had slowly backed away, who had grabbed the car keys, who had driven them to safety while he shook in the passenger seat. That was when she'd stopped seeing him as her protector.

The goldfish rose to the surface, mouth opening and closing in silent repetition.

Emma stood up, flushed the fish down the toilet, and packed her bag.