The Lightning Strike

Maya sat on her living room floor at 3 AM, her iPhone illuminating the only corner of her marriage that still held warmth. Two years ago tonight, David had walked out during a thunderstorm. She remembered watching his taillights fade through raindrops that caught every lightning strike like sequins on a dark dress.

Bubbles, their rescue cat, padded into the room and settled beside the fishbowl. Inside, a single goldfish — named Memory, because David had bought it on their anniversary, five years ago — swam in endless circles. Maya had always hated that fish. Its stupid, open mouth. The way it never seemed to recognize her, only the food she provided. Just like him, really.

Memory wasn't swimming now. It floated at an angle, gills barely moving.

Maya's thumb hovered over David's contact. She hadn't called in eight months. Not since she'd seen his new girlfriend's post — trip to Paris, the Eiffel Tower at sunset, his hand visible in the frame, wearing the watch she'd given him for his thirtieth birthday.

'Shit,' she whispered.

The goldfish rolled over. Dead.

She laughed. It started small, then built until she was crying-laughing, the ugly kind, and Bubbles bolted from the room. Of course. Of course the fish would die on the anniversary of her abandonment. Of course she'd spent two years keeping this thing alive — changing its water, buying the expensive pellets — for a man who hadn't bothered to text her on her birthday since March.

Outside, lightning flashed. No thunder yet. The storm was still miles away, approaching like bad news.

Maya stood up, iPhone still clutched in her hand, and walked to the kitchen. She filled a glass with water. She thought about calling him. She thought about saying, 'Your fish died. Your fish is dead, David.' But she didn't.

She poured the water into the plant on the windowsill — something with leaves that kept drooping no matter what she did. It was probably dead too.

The phone buzzed. A text from David: 'Thinking of you tonight. Hope you're okay.'

Maya watched the message for a long moment. Then she deleted it, blocked his number, and walked into the bathroom. She dumped the goldfish into the toilet.

'Bye, Memory,' she said, and flushed.