The Last Swim

Maria moved through her apartment like a zombie, her body present but her consciousness trailing three steps behind. The cardboard boxes had multiplied overnight, consuming the space she and David had called home for seven years. Now each room was a mausoleum of memories, labeled in Sharpie: KITCHEN. BEDROOM. HIS SHIT.

The cable guy, whose nametag read GARY, was crouched by the television, his tool belt clinking with every movement. "You're all set," he said, standing up and wiping his hands on his thighs. "Service transferred to the new address. You should be up and running by tonight."

"Thanks," Maria said, though she wasn't thankful at all. She was just tired.

Gary left, and Maria was alone again with the boxes and the silence and the goldfish.

The goldfish—ridiculously named Captain Fin by David during their second bottle of wine together—swam in lazy circles in its bowl on the counter. Maria had fought for custody of this fish with surprising ferocity during their division of assets negotiations. Not the furniture. Not the art. The fish.

"You're coming with me," she'd told David, and he'd looked at her with that exhausted tolerance that had replaced their love somewhere around year five.

Now Captain Fin surfaced, his mouth opening and closing in silent accusation. Maria had killed three succulents and a prayer plant since David moved out. She couldn't keep herself alive some days, let alone another living thing.

She thought about her brother's warning from last night: "You're in the thick of it, Mars. The zombie phase where you're just going through motions. But it gets better."

Maria leaned against the counter, watching the fish swim. The cable was disconnected. The boxes were taped. Her marriage was over. And somewhere in this mess, she was supposed to build a new life.

"Well, Captain," she whispered to the fish. "It's just you and me now."

The fish continued its endless laps around the bowl, and Maria found herself envying its simple, circular existence. She grabbed the tape gun and sealed the last box, the sound sharp and final in the empty room. Tomorrow she would carry these boxes to her new place—a one-bedroom apartment with windows that faced another building's brick wall. Tomorrow she would begin.

Tonight, she would stand here and watch a fish swim, and let herself feel everything she'd been too busy to notice until now.