The Things We Keep

The goldfish circled its bowl, orange scales flashing in the afternoon light that slanted through Sara's apartment window. It had survived three years, two boyfriends, and Sara's gradual descent into whatever this was — this state of suspended animation between who she'd been and who she'd become.

Her iPhone buzzed on the counter. Marcus again. She'd stopped reading his messages two weeks ago, stopped typing responses she'd only delete. The device sat there like a polished obsidian artifact of a life she was trying to shed. Its screen lit up with notifications: calendar reminders she'd ignore, work emails she'd answer at 3 AM, social media updates from people living lives she couldn't remember how to inhabit.

Sara sliced into the papaya she'd bought on impulse at the market. The flesh was the color of sunset, the kind of sunset that makes you believe in something larger than yourself, even if you've long since stopped believing in anything at all. She ate it standing over the sink, juice running down her wrist, thinking about the summer she'd turned twenty-eight and spent three weeks in Costa Rica with someone who'd promised her forever.

That person was married now. Sara had seen the photos on Facebook — the white dress, the beach ceremony, the papaya-colored sunset in the background. She'd felt nothing, which was its own kind of something.

The goldfish approached the glass, mouth opening and closing in silent supplication. How much did fish remember? Did it wake up each morning surprised to find itself here, in this bowl on this windowsill in this apartment? Did it mourn the castle-shaped plastic ruin it had outgrown, or was it simply grateful to be alive?

Sara's phone buzzed again. Not Marcus this time — her mother, asking if she was coming to dinner on Sunday.

She set the papaya skin in the sink, wiped her sticky hands on a paper towel. Somewhere in this city, Marcus was probably wondering why she wouldn't respond. Somewhere, her mother was probably worrying. Somewhere, the person who'd promised her forever was waking up next to someone else.

The goldfish did another lap of its bowl. Sara watched it and felt, suddenly, the terrible weight of being alive — the way you just kept swimming, even when you'd forgotten what shore looked like.