The Three-Second Memory

The goldfish, named Casey after the batter, swam in tight circles inside a bowl that had sat on Marcus's desk for seven years. Same bowl. Same fish. Same goddamn circles.

"They say goldfish have three-second memories," David had told him once, back when they were still friends, back when they played softball every Tuesday and the worst thing between them was a disputed call at home plate. "Must be nice. To just keep swimming, new every time."

Now Casey was Marcus's problem. David's suicide note hadn't mentioned the fish—just said he was tired, that the depression had won again, that Marcus was a good friend for trying. Marcus had found him three days later. The apartment smelled like rot and baseball card storage boxes. The goldfish bowl was the only living thing left.

Marcus sprinkled flakes into the bowl. Casey surged to the surface, mouth opening and closing like a baby bird's, oblivious that its owner was dead, oblivious to anything except the sudden appearance of food.

He'd been feeding the fish for six months. Six months of flakes and water changes and talking to a creature that wouldn't remember his voice three seconds later. Six months since he'd found out David was sleeping with his wife. Six months since the softball league dissolved. Six months since he'd understood why David had been so tired.

The affair had ended when David died. Sarah had moved out two weeks after the funeral. "I can't look at you without seeing him," she'd said, packing her things into boxes Marcus had helped tape shut, baseball trophies gathering dust on the shelf above them.

Marcus tapped the glass. Casey swam toward the sound, then away, then toward it again—new every time. Fresh as hell.

"You lucky bastard," Marcus whispered.

He considered letting the water evaporate. It would be easy. Just stop changing it. Let the ammonia build up. Let the cycle complete itself—David gone, Sarah gone, the fish gone, Marcus alone in an apartment that smelled like nothing at all.

Casey did a little flip, chasing a flake.

Marcus sighed and reached for the food container again. "Fine," he said. "But you're living with me now. And I'm not buying you a bigger bowl."