The Mathematics of Leaving

The goldfish had survived three apartments, two marriages, and Margaret's entire tenure as a corporate accountant. Now, floating belly-up in its bowl on what should have been just another Tuesday morning, it seemed to be signaling something final.

Elena stood in her bathrobe, staring at the orange corpse while thunder rattled the windowpane. Outside, lightning forked across the Seattle sky — the same storm that had driven Margaret into the apartment seven years ago, soaking wet and holding a cardboard box of belongings.

"You're being dramatic," Margaret had said then, her lip curling in that way that made Elena feel fifteen again. "It's just rain."

Now Margaret was gone. The closet held only Elena's clothes. The bathroom counter had space again. The cat — Biscuit, a judgmental calico Margaret had adopted on impulse without consulting Elena — sat on the kitchen counter, watching Elena with what seemed like active disdain. Biscuit had always preferred Margaret anyway.

Elena's phone buzzed. Her mother, calling to remind her about the vitamin D supplements she'd been prescribed after last month's bloodwork. "You're not getting any younger, Elena. Your bones won't forgive you."

She declined the call.

The goldfish bowl needed to be emptied. Elena lifted it carefully, water sloshing against the glass, and carried it to the bathroom. As she poured the dead fish into the toilet, she caught sight of herself in the mirror — hair unbrushed, eyes puffed from crying herself to sleep again.

On the hook behind the bathroom door hung Margaret's favorite hat, a wide-brimmed thing she'd worn to garden parties and Sunday brunches, pretending to enjoy people she secretly couldn't stand. Elena had hated that hat. She'd left it there on purpose, a small act of petty resistance.

Now she took it down and put it on her own head. It fit perfectly.

"You're being dramatic," she said to her reflection, mimicking Margaret's tone. Then she flushed the toilet.

The fish spiraled away. The storm outside broke, sunlight suddenly flooding through the bathroom window. Elena stood in her ex-lover's hat, watching dust motes dance in the light, and realized she didn't know if she was mourning Margaret or simply the seven years she'd spent becoming someone else.

Biscuit meowed from the kitchen, demanding breakfast. Some things, it seemed, would demand attention regardless of heartbreak.