The Three-Feet Deep

The notification lit up Marcus's iPhone at 2:47 AM, glowing like a dying star against the hotel ceiling. Sarah saw it from her side of the bed — the way she'd been seeing things for months now, in that peripheral space between sleep and waking. 'Can't stop thinking about you.'

She said nothing. At 8:00 AM, they were on the padel court, the echo of the ball against glass walls matching the hollow rhythm in her chest. Marcus played with aggressive precision, his sweat-slicked grip on the racket, his wedding band catching the morning sun. 'You're distracted,' he said after she missed a fourth volley, his tone gentle but measuring. 'Everything okay?'

'Fine,' Sarah said, returning the serve with more force than necessary. 'Just tired.'

In their rented apartment, a goldfish — orange and translucent, purchased by their daughter on vacation three years ago — swam endless circles in its bowl on the windowsill. Sarah had bought it on impulse after leaving Marcus that morning, sitting in a pet shop aisle for twenty minutes watching fish navigate territories no larger than a dinner plate.

She found herself at the pet store counter, bowl in hand, thinking about memory and attention spans and the things people convinced themselves they could live without. The goldfish, she learned, could actually remember things for months. That was a myth perpetuated by people who needed to believe forgetfulness was natural.

That evening, she placed the bowl on the dining table between their takeout containers. 'His name is Henry,' she said.

Marcus looked up from his iPhone, the screen reflecting against his glasses. 'We talked about this. No pets.'

'He's company,' Sarah said, watching the fish surface, break the water with its mouth, descend again. 'Besides, he only remembers what matters.'

Marcus laughed, that dismissive chuckle that had started to grate on her nerves lately. 'Three-second memory, Sarah. Literally the perfect pet for you.'

She watched Henry push against the glass, his tail trailing like silk in water. 'Actually,' she said quietly, 'they can remember things for five months. I looked it up.' She reached for Marcus's phone, sitting face-up beside his curry. 'Some things, though — some things should probably be forgotten.'

He stiffened. 'What's that supposed to mean?'

Sarah didn't answer. Henry the goldfish rose to the surface again, mouth opening and closing in the silent apartment, swimming circles in a world no larger than the space between them.