The Riddle of Memory

Margaret's goldfish circled its bowl in the corner of her sterile office, its orange scales catching the afternoon light. She'd rescued it from a carnival booth fifteen years ago, a prize from a date she couldn't quite remember. The fish, improbably named Fred, outlasted her marriage, her promotions, and most of her dreams.

Across the hall worked Fox—the nickname fit him like a tailored suit. Cunning, beautiful, impossible to pin down. At forty-two, Margaret should know better than to fall for a man thirty-two with a smile that promised everything and delivered nothing. But office politics in a dying department made for strange bedfellows, and stranger affairs.

"You're thinking too hard again," Fox said, leaning against her doorframe, holding two lukewarm coffees.

"Fred's dying," Margaret said, though the fish seemed fine. "I think he's been dying for three years."

Fox laughed. "He's a goldfish, Marge. They're supposed to be fragile. That's the point."

That was Fox's philosophy: everything was disposable, replaceable, transient. He moved through the corporate wreckage of their shrinking department like he moved through relationships—lightly, leaving no fingerprints, no commitments. Margaret had learned this the hard way, in hotel rooms and empty apartments, in the silent gaps between late-night emails and early-morning regrets.

"I applied for the buyout," she said.

His smile didn't falter. "Good. You should."

"I'm forty-two, Fox. What do I do next?"

"Anything you want. That's the point of freedom."

Margaret watched Fred complete another lap. She thought about her ex-husband's face when he left, about her mother's funeral, about the years of performance reviews and quarterly projections. She thought about the way Fox looked at her when he thought she wouldn't notice, hungry and remote all at once.

"You're like a sphinx," she said suddenly. "All riddles, no answers."

"I'm honest," he said. "You just don't like what I'm saying."

"No, you're not. You're just young enough to still believe your own bullshit."

He set the coffee on her desk and left, his footsteps fading down the corridor. Margaret watched Fred swim his endless circles, thought about the years she'd spent going in loops, waiting for someone to solve her riddles for her.

The fish floated to the surface, gasping.

Margaret stood up, gathered her personal effects, and walked out of the office for the last time. Some riddles you solve yourself.