The Things We Feed

The goldfish circled its bowl, orange scales catching the afternoon light that slanted through the blinds of Marcus's office. Forty-seven years old, regional VP, and he was watching a fish live a life of endless repetition while his own felt strangely similar.

"You're not listening, Sarah."

Sarah, twenty-six and terrifyingly sharp, leaned against his doorframe. "I'm saying the Richmond deal is dead, Marcus.Corporate pulled the rug. That's the third bull session you've sold me this quarter."

He rubbed his temples. Richmond was supposed to be his legacy project. Instead, it was joining the graveyard of his ambitions.

His phone buzzed. Elena.

Last night, over wine she'd refused to pour, she'd told him she was done with his half-presence. "You're like a cat," she'd said. "You only come around when you want something warm. Otherwise you're somewhere else, somewhere I can't reach."

The accusation stung more than he'd shown.

Marcus stood and walked to the window. Below, a dog park played out its little dramas—golden retrievers chasing tennis balls, owners making awkward conversation. He and Elena used to bring Buster there Sunday mornings. After the divorce, he'd stopped going. Too many memories that felt like peeling scabs.

"My dad played baseball," he said suddenly.

Sarah blinked. "What?"

"College scholarship. blew out his knee junior year. Never got over it. Spent thirty years talking about what could've been, living in the past tense. Sometimes I catch myself doing the same thing."

He looked at the goldfish again, swimming its endless circles. Three-second memory, they said. Maybe that was a blessing.

"You still have time, Marcus," Sarah said, surprisingly gentle. "You're what, forty-five? That's not old. That's just when you figure out what actually matters."

He looked at her—really looked at her—for the first time. She was right, and that was the terrifying part.

"Yeah," Marcus said. "I suppose we do."