The Riddle of Us

Marcus lay in bed watching Sarah swallow handfuls of vitamins at 7 AM—orange bottles lined up like soldiers on the bathroom counter. Vitamin D for the December gray, B-complex for energy she never seemed to have, magnesium for sleep that eluded them both.

He felt like a zombie going through the motions of their marriage. Touch her shoulder here. Kiss her forehead there. Pretend not to notice when she cried in the shower.

"We need to talk," she said, not meeting his eyes.

The sphinx statue from their trip to Egypt last year watched from the bookshelf, limestone wings spread in frozen judgment. They'd bought it after making love in a hotel room with balcony doors open to the desert wind, promising each other forever. Now it felt like a riddle he couldn't solve: what do you do when love becomes a habit you can't break?

On the dresser, their goldfish—Bubbles, because they'd been unimaginatively happy then—swam in endless circles. Three years of the same bowl, the same flakes, the same view of a relationship that had stopped growing. Marcus found himself envying the fish. At least Bubbles didn't know it was trapped.

"I met someone," Sarah said finally.

The vitamins hadn't fixed what was broken between them. No supplement could.

Marcus nodded, feeling something crack open in his chest. "Is he making you happy?"

"He doesn't make me feel like I'm already dead."

Later, as she packed her suitcase, Marcus found himself at the pet store. The clerk looked confused when he asked which tank was biggest, which would give a goldfish the most room to swim.

He bought a twenty-gallon setup with live plants and a gentle filter. When he dropped Bubbles into the new tank, the fish swam in wild, exploratory circles, finally free to move beyond its eternal loop.

Marcus watched for a long time. Then he went home and packed the sphinx into a box, putting it with the rest of the things Sarah had left behind—artifacts from a life that no longer fit.