The Mercy of Goldfish

Marcus fed the goldfish every morning at 7:00, the only living thing that still needed him. It swam in endless circles, three seconds of memory at a time. He envied it. The vitamin D supplements sat by his coffee maker, prescribed for his winter deficiency, but he took them year-round now, trying to remember he had a body that required maintenance.

He'd been walking like a zombie for six months since Elena left. Some days he forgot she'd ever lived here, then would find her hair ties in the bathroom drawer and the grief would hit fresh, like grief had no memory at all, like him.

"You need to eat something green," his doctor had said, so Marcus bought spinach. It rotted in his crisper drawer week after week, a slow green death he couldn't bring himself to prepare. Cooking felt like too much life for one man.

Then came the baseball tournament. His son's team, the city finals. Elena had asked him to come. "Jay needs you there," she'd said, and Marcus had agreed because he was a man who agreed to things now.

He sat in the aluminum bleachers, watching his boy pitch. Jay threw a strikeout that ended the game, and his teammates mobbed him, jumping and shouting. Marcus couldn't move. His son looked for him in the crowd, found him, and grinned.

That night, Marcus finally made a salad. The spinach was wilted but edible. He stood at the counter chewing slowly, feeling something shift inside him, not quite hope but its precursor. The goldfish swam toward the glass, opening and closing its mouth. Marcus tapped the bowl gently.

"Three seconds," he said. "Then it's all new again."

He swallowed. The greens tasted bitter, like medicine, like something that might eventually make him well.