The Last Swim

Margaret watched the goldfish drift sideways in its bowl, its orange scales dulling under the kitchen's fluorescent hum. Three years they'd had it—a gift from some forgotten coworker at their wedding. Now it swam in lazy, dying circles, mirroring everything else in their apartment.

"Cable's out again," David called from the living room, his voice muffled through the wall. "Third time this week."

She poked at her spinach salad, the leaves wilting faster than she could eat them. They'd agreed to dinner at seven. It was 7:43.

"Maybe just put on music," she said, though she knew he wouldn't. David needed the television's constant chatter to fill the spaces between them.

The goldfish surfaced, gasping.

"Should we..." Margaret started, then stopped. What? Flush it? Bury it in the park? Pretend they'd never loved the stupid thing?

David appeared in the doorway, cable box in hand like some offered sacrifice. "You've got spinach in your teeth," he said, not unkindly.

She wiped her mouth with a paper napkin, leaving a green smear. "Thanks."

"The fish is dying, isn't it?"

"I think so."

He set the cable box on the counter and stood beside her, both of them staring into the bowl. His shoulder brushed hers, and she leaned into it—just for a second, just enough to remember what it felt like to be touched on purpose.

"Remember when we bought the house?" he asked quietly. "We said we'd get a real tank. Saltwater. Those bright blue ones."

"We were going to have kids, too."

"Yeah."

The goldfish rolled onto its side, its gills moving in frantic, shallow bursts.

"I could make you something else," David said. "That spinach looks gross."

Margaret looked up at him—really looked—at the gray threading his temples, the lines around his mouth she'd memorized without meaning to. He was still trying, in his small, inadequate ways. That had to count for something.

"It's fine," she said, and for the first time in months, she meant it.

The fish moved one last time—a sudden, violent thrash—and then stilled.

"Well," David said. "That's that."

"Yeah."

"Want help with the dishes?"

Margaret smiled, just a little. "I'd like that."

They cleaned up together in silence, the dirty cable box still sitting on the counter, the dead fish in its bowl beside them, spinach leaves swirling down the drain as the water ran, cold and steady, over their hands.