The Last Tuesday in October

Margaret stood before the mirror, adjusting the black velvet **hat** she'd bought for Arthur's funeral. It was too much, really—widow's weeds for a man she'd divorced seven years ago—but grief has its own etiquette, and she'd always been proper about these things.

The goldfish drifted to the front of its bowl, mouth opening and closing in that perpetual, silent scream. Arthur had bought it the week he moved out, some absurd parting gift she'd kept alive through three apartments and as many jobs. **Goldfish** were supposed to have seven-second memories. She envied them.

Her phone buzzed—David, wanting to know if she was still coming to dinner. They'd been seeing each other for six months, this nice accountant who separated his colors for laundry and called his mother on Sundays. He was safe. He was exactly what she needed after Arthur, all charisma and chaos, the way he'd charm whole rooms while silently dismantling her confidence, piece by careful piece. A **fox** in the laboratory of her heart.

She thought of David's hands on her last night, gentle and thorough, and how she'd stared at the ceiling thinking about how she needed to buy more **spinach**. Something green. Something alive. At forty-seven, she'd become a person who worried about fiber and antioxidants instead of passion or art or whether she was disappearing, degree by degree, into other people's expectations.

The goldfish turned in the water, its orange flash catching the afternoon light. Seven seconds, and it would forget. Seven seconds, and it would discover everything again. What must that be like? To find your own reflection surprising, to swim toward it each time as if meeting a lover?

Margaret took off the hat and let it rest on the entry table. She wasn't going to the funeral. She would make herself something with spinach, drink too much wine, and maybe call David. Or maybe she wouldn't. The goldfish swam to the glass, and this time, she finally looked back.