The Last Orange Sunset

Maya's hair fell across her face as she leaned over the aquarium, watching the goldfish—named Barry, after her ex—drift through the murky water. Three years of marriage, and she'd gotten custody of a fish with downward-spiraling eyes.

Her iPhone buzzed on the counter. Brian again. 'Can we talk?'

She didn't pick up. Instead, she peeled an orange, the citrus scent cutting through the stale apartment air. The juice stung the paper cut on her thumb—a remnant from yesterday's office drama, where she'd discovered her entire department was being phased out. Forty-two years old, and she was obsolete.

'You're the one who wanted space,' Brian had said when he left, taking everything except the fish. Now she had all the space she could want, plus a goldfish that seemed to be judging her life choices.

Maya's phone lit up again. Not Brian this time. Her mother: 'Your father's in the hospital. Heart attack.'

The orange segment fell from her hand, rolling across the linoleum. Suddenly, the unemployment, the divorce, the goldfish—it all seemed small.

She called Brian back.

'Hey,' he answered, voice careful.

'My dad had a heart attack.'

'I'm coming over.' No hesitation. No discussion of their pending divorce paperwork or who kept the furniture.

'Thank you.'

Maya sat on the floor watching Barry swim. Her father would survive. She'd find another job. Maybe she and Brian wouldn't make it, or maybe they would. But for the first time in months, she didn't feel like she was drowning.

The goldfish rose to the surface, opening and closing its mouth in silent observation. Maya reached toward the tank, her messy hair catching the last orange light of sunset through the window.

'You're a terrible replacement for a husband,' she told the fish. 'But you're not bad company.'