The Last Supper

Arthur watched the goldfish float sideways in the bowl, its orange scales catching the dying kitchen light. He'd bought it for Julia two months before, during that brief window when they'd still been trying—date nights, weekend trips, the exhausting performance of rekindling something that had burned out years ago.

"It's still alive," Julia said from behind him. She was chopping spinach, the knife hitting the cutting board with sharp, rhythmic thuds. "They do that sometimes. Play dead."

Arthur didn't correct her. He'd looked it up on his phone while she was in the bathroom earlier. Swim bladder disease. Dropsy. The internet offered endless names for what happened when living things simply gave up.

"Dinner's ready," Julia said. She slid a plate across the counter—wilted spinach with garlic, portioned with surgical precision. "You need to eat more greens. Your cholesterol was borderline last time."

This was how it went now. Medical observations instead of conversations. Constructive criticism instead of arguments. They'd become roommates who monitored each other's decline with professional detachment.

"How was the meeting?" Arthur asked, because someone had to speak.

Julia's jaw tightened. "Mike went full bull in there. Charging at every suggestion, knocking over the PowerPoint, acting like aggression is the same thing as leadership. I swear to god, if I have to spend one more year cleaning up after that man's tantrums—"

She stopped herself, catching Arthur's eye. They both knew what she'd almost said: one more year. That was their deal, wasn't it? Wait until the stock options vested. Wait until the house was worth what they'd paid. Wait until there was nothing left to wait for.

Arthur pressed his fork into the spinach. It squeaked against the plate.

"I'm sorry," he said.

Julia's expression softened. "It's fine. It's just work."

"No." Arthur looked at the fish bowl, where the goldfish had begun a slow, spiraling descent to the gravel. "I meant about the fish. About dinner. About all of it."

Julia set down her wine glass. The kitchen was so quiet he could hear the refrigerator humming, the steady mechanical heartbeat of their shared life.

"We were going to try again," she said quietly. "Remember? New year, new us."

"We bought a fish instead of going to therapy."

She laughed, a startled sound, and then covered her mouth with her hand. The laughter escaped anyway, spilling out until she was wiping her eyes, leaving faint streaks of mascara on her cheeks.

"Oh my god," she said. "We really did, didn't we?"

Arthur stood up and walked to the fish bowl. The goldfish lay on the bottom now, gills barely moving.

"I'll flush it," he said.

"No." Julia came up behind him, pressing her face between his shoulder blades. "Let it go tonight. We'll deal with it tomorrow."

They stood there like that, watching a small orange body settle into the artificial gravel, as somewhere in the distance, their neighbor's dog began to bark. Tomorrow was coming. They both knew there would be a lot to deal with.