The Last Weekend

The morning light hit Carlos's living room at a harsh angle, illuminating the dust motes dancing in the air around the goldfish bowl on the bookshelf. The fish—unnamed, like so many things between them—swam in endless circles, its memory supposedly three seconds long, though Elena wondered if it was actually trapped in some kind of piscine purgatory.

"You're leaving," Carlos said from the couch. He hadn't looked at her since she'd placed her packed bag by the door ten minutes ago. The television was on, the cable news droning about another market crash, another bull run turned bear, another cycle of economic violence that meant nothing to people like them who'd never owned stock in their lives.

"Carlos—"

"No, it's fine. I get it." He finally turned, and his eyes were red-rimmed. "I figured it would happen eventually. Ever since the promotion. You're too good for this place now. Too good for me."

"That's not fair," she said, though part of her wondered if he was right. "You know why I have to take the position in Chicago. The rent here—"

"The rent everywhere," he cut in. "Welcome to capitalism, Elena. We're all just trying not to drown."

He picked up an orange from the coffee table, rolled it between his palms. A gift from his mother last week, too sentimental to eat. It sat there like an incendiary device, something that could explode juice and sticky sweetness across the carefully maintained distance between them.

"We could still be friends," she offered, the words tasting like ash. The classic breakup line, inadequate and cowardly, but what else was there?

Carlos laughed without humor. "Friends. Sure. We can be those people who like each other's Instagram posts from different cities. Who send birthday texts and Christmas cards and slowly, gradually become strangers who used to know each other's coffee orders and childhood traumas. That sounds great."

He stood up, crossed to the window, looked out at the street where they'd first met five years ago at a protest that changed nothing.

"I'm sorry," she said.

"No you're not," he replied, still facing away. "You're relieved. And I don't blame you. This apartment, this life—it's not enough. You were always going to outgrow it. Outgrow me."

She wanted to contradict him, to say something profound and redeeming, but the words wouldn't come. Because maybe he was right. Maybe they'd just been placeholders for each other, waystations between who they were and who they were becoming.

"You'll forget to feed the fish," she said instead, and it came out more bitterly than she intended.

Carlos turned finally, and the look on his face was something she knew she'd remember for years. "I already did," he said softly. "Yesterday. I forgot. And I figured if that's what it's come to—just going through the motions, keeping things alive out of habit—then maybe it's time to let things die."

The goldfish swam another circle, utterly unaware of the wreckage surrounding it. Elena picked up her bag. The cable news continued its rhythmic cadence of disaster. Outside, the city waited, indifferent and enormous. She walked out without looking back, but she could feel his eyes on her the whole time, and she knew: some things, once broken, can never be friends again.