The Lightning Swim

Mark had been running for forty-five minutes when his phone buzzed in the cupholder of the treadmill. Another text from her: *I'm leaving. The goldfish are yours.*

He stumbled, caught the handrails, and let the belt's momentum carry him backward until his feet hit the floor behind the machine. Outside the gym windows, lightning fractured the sky — a violent white crack that seemed to split the world in two.

He'd become a zombie in his own marriage, that much was true. Showing up, eating dinner, sleeping beside her while his heart camped somewhere else, maybe with that junior analyst who'd smiled at him during the merger. Now the zombie state was spreading to everything else. Running, spreadsheets, quarterly projections — all of it performed with the same mechanical precision.

Sarah had told him three months ago that she felt like she was living with a ghost. He'd nodded, taken another bite of steak, and wondered why she always had to make everything so dramatic.

Now he stood at the door of their — her — apartment building, dripping sweat, key heavy in his hand. When he opened the door, the silence hit him first. Then the fish tank's gentle hum. Sarah had left the goldfish, after all. Five of them, orange and white, swimming endless circles in their glass prison.

*Their,* he corrected himself. His goldfish now.

He dropped to his knees in front of the tank. It was larger than he remembered — forty gallons of crystal-clear water that Sarah had religiously maintained. How many evenings had she sat on this floor, feeding them, talking to them, while he'd worked late in the study, negotiating deals that no longer mattered?

Another flash of lightning illuminated the room. He'd swim in this tank if he could fit. Just let himself sink to the bottom, weightless, suspended in water that someone else had carefully prepared for him. That was the problem, wasn't it? He'd been swimming in her love for five years, lazy and entitled, taking for granted that she'd always keep the water clean, the temperature perfect, the food coming.

Behind him, the door opened. Sarah stood there with a box of her things, rain soaking her hair.

"I forgot my purse," she said, stopping when she saw him kneeling before the tank. She didn't seem surprised. Just tired.

"I've been running," he said. His voice sounded rusty. "For a long time."

"I know." She set down the box. "You've been running since I met you. I just thought maybe eventually you'd run toward something instead of away."

She stepped into the room and the goldfish darted excitedly toward her familiar silhouette.

"Are you coming back?" he asked, not turning around. It wasn't the right question. He knew it wasn't.

"No." Her voice was gentle. Final. "But I left the fish. Maybe you could try feeding them for once."

When she left, she didn't close the door behind her. Mark watched the goldfish swimming in the lightning's brief illumination, realizing with sudden clarity that he'd never learned which of them — if any — had names.