The Tether

The storm outside matched her mood precisely. Elena sat on the floor of her half-empty apartment, the lightning flash illuminating boxes she'd been too paralyzed to seal. Her iphone vibrated against the hardwood—Mark again, probably. She'd stopped reading the messages three days ago.

"You're taking the goldfish?" Sarah had asked yesterday, standing in the doorway with that mix of pity and impatience she'd worn since the breakup. "Really?"

Elena hadn't known how to explain that the fish was the last living thing that still needed her. That she'd spent six years building a life with someone, and now she couldn't even commit to choosing a custody arrangement for a creature with a seven-second memory.

The dog, at least, had been straightforward. Buster went with Mark—the apartment, the car, the life that could accommodate a seventy-pound Labrador. Elena got the fish, the coffee maker, and this crushing silence.

She reached for the charging cable, its white cord frayed where she'd absentmindedly chewed it during phone calls with her mother last month. How many hours had she spent tethered to this wall, this life, this person who had packed his things in under an hour and left without looking back?

Another lightning strike. The goldfish, whose name she couldn't remember—was it Gerald? Arthur?—darted nervously in its bowl. She'd forgotten to feed him yesterday. Or maybe it was the day before.

"We're both just swimming in circles," she whispered to the bowl. The words felt pathetic as they left her mouth.

Her iphone lit up again. Not Mark this time. A notification: "3 years since you became friends with Mark on Facebook." The algorithm's cruelty was almost artistic.

She stood up, her legs cramped from sitting too long. The cable pulled taut, then snapped—the charging head had been loose for weeks. Perfect. One more thing that didn't work anymore.

Elena walked to the window and watched the lightning illuminate the parking lot where Mark's car used to be. She thought about the fish, about how goldfish are supposed to have terrible memories but probably remembered more than she gave them credit for. Maybe memory wasn't about holding on—maybe it was about learning when to let go.

The fish swam to the surface, mouth opening and closing.

"Yeah," she said. "I know."