The Sphinx's Empty Bowl

Elena stood before the aquarium, the only thing Marcus had left behind when he walked out three months ago. The goldfish—orange as a warning light, indifferent as a sphinx—circled its glass prison, opening and closing its mouth in silent judgment. She'd forgotten to feed it twice already. The fact that it still survived felt like an accusation.

Her phone vibrated on the counter. Marcus's name lit up the screen like summer lightning, bright and dangerous. She didn't answer.

Instead, she reached for the vintage fedora hanging on the coat rack—the hat he'd bought at that thrift store in New Orleans, the one he'd worn to their anniversary dinner even though she'd begged him not to. It smelled faintly of his cologne and cigarette smoke. She'd been meaning to donate it. She hadn't.

Outside, thunder rattled the windowpane. The goldfish darted to the bottom of its bowl, seeking cover from a storm that couldn't touch it.

"You're just like him," Elena whispered to the fish. "You'll eat anything I give you, won't you?"

The sphinxes Marcus had collected—small ceramic ones, brass bookends, a snow globe from Egypt—watched from the shelves. Riddles without answers. Silence in place of secrets.

Her phone stopped vibrating. A text appeared: *Can we talk?*

Elena picked up the fish food. Sprinkled flakes into the water. Watched the orange fish rise, greedy and thankful and entirely forgettable. Some things, she realized, would eat whatever you fed them. Some things would simply swim in circles forever, mistaking movement for progress.

She deleted the text. Then she deleted his number.

The goldfish broke the surface, gasping. Elena turned away, leaving it to its mysteries, its hunger, its tiny, bounded world.