The Night Everything Swam

Emma arrived at L'Azure Diner with spinach between her teeth and already regretting everything. She'd spent twenty minutes in the car debating whether to cancel, but Richard from corporate had been so persistent, and God, she was lonely enough to mistake desperation for romance.

He was already there, wearing that ridiculous fedora at a table surrounded by aquariums. Goldfish everywhere — orange, white, speckled — swimming endless circles in tanks that lined every wall. It was like eating dinner inside a pet store disco.

"Emma! You look radiant." Richard stood, doffing his hat with a flourish that made her stomach hurt. "I requested this spot. Thought the fish would be... calming."

"It's certainly an atmosphere," she said, touching her mouth with her napkin, praying she'd dislodged the spinach.

The conversation died faster than the fish in the tank beside them. Richard spoke in corporate aphorisms about "synergy" and "circle of life" while staring at her chest. Emma drank her wine too fast and watched a particularly fat goldfish press its face against the glass, mouth opening and closing in silent screams.

"You know," Richard said, leaning in, "goldfish have terrible memories. Three seconds, then everything's new again. Must be peaceful, never remembering your mistakes."

Emma's phone buzzed. Her ex-husband. Again.

"I need to use the restroom," she said, standing too quickly.

In the mirror, she saw it: the spinach, vivid and stubborn, wedged between her front teeth. She'd spent the entire evening smiling and laughing and sympathizing with this man-child while looking like she'd been eating salad in a windstorm.

She watched herself in the mirror for a long moment. Then she picked the spinach out with her fingernail, rinsed her mouth, and walked back to the table.

Richard was still talking, gesturing with his hat in one hand, wine in the other. "...and that's when I knew middle management was my true calling. The vision, the strategy—"

"Richard," Emma said, setting her napkin down. "I forgot to feed my daughter's fish. They're probably dead by now."

"Oh." He blinked. "That's... unfortunate."

"It really is." She stood, picked up her bag. "This was nice. But I have to go."

"Wait—your wine, the check—"

"The goldfish are three seconds," she called over her shoulder, already halfway to the door. "Maybe you'll forget I ever left."

Outside, the air hit her cold and wonderful. She laughed until she cried, then hailed a cab, alone and absolutely fine with it.