The Riddle of Silence

The spinach wilted in the pan, exactly like our marriage had — slowly, without either of us noticing until it was too late to save it.

"It's done," I said, though I wasn't talking about dinner.

Marcus didn't look up from his phone. "Great."

The goldfish — Gerald, because seven-year-olds shouldn't name pets — floated at the top of his bowl again. Third time this week. I'd bought the water drops that promised to fix whatever was wrong with him, but nothing changed. Some things just declined gradually until they stopped swimming altogether.

"I have to tell you something," Marcus said, finally meeting my eyes.

The words hung in the air between us like a sphinx's riddle: answer correctly and everything changes. Answer wrong, and everything ends anyway.

"I know," I said.

His face fell. "You know?"

"I found the messages," I said, serving spinach onto plates that had sat unused for too long. "Three weeks ago."

"Why didn't you—"

"Because I wanted to see if you'd tell me."

The goldfish surfaced, mouth opening and closing in silent repetition. Feed me, feed me. Or maybe it was: help me, help me.

"I'm sorry," Marcus said.

"For what?" I asked. "For her, or for not trusting me enough to end it first?"

The silence between us stretched so thin it might have been transparent, revealing everything we'd carefully avoided for months: the nights he worked late, the way I stopped asking questions, the slow wilting of two people who had once been alive together in the same room.

"For all of it," he said.

The spinach tasted like salt, though I hadn't added any. Tears have a way of seasoning everything.

"Gerald's not swimming," Marcus said, changing the subject with the cowardice of men who cannot face what they've broken.

"I know," I said. "I think it's time to let him go."

I wasn't talking about the fish.