The Wake

Marcus stood by the appetizer table, nursing his third drink and feeling like a zombie at his own funeral. The wedding reception of his younger sister ebbed and flowed around him—laughter, clinking glasses, the desperate joy of people pretending marriage would solve anything.

His ex-wife Elena emerged from the crowd like a fox who'd found the chicken coop, her red dress catching every eye in the room. She'd always moved that way, cunning and graceful, leaving chaos in her wake without ever seeming to be the cause of it.

"You look like someone shot your dog," she said, sliding up beside him.

"My daughter's goldfish died this morning. Beta had a good run though—three years, which is bear-like in goldfish years, I suppose."

Elena's mouth softened. "You still have that fishbowl?"

"Apparently they need filtered water now. Special lights. The pet store guy gave me a whole lecture about proper goldfish care while I stood there holding a dead fish in a baggie."

Outside, lightning cracked the sky open, illuminating the venue's glass walls. The first drops of rain began to streak downward like tears.

"You always were sentimental about the smallest things," she said, but her voice lacked its usual edge. "Remember when you cried that time we hit that bear with the car?"

Marcus almost smiled. "That was a dog, Elena. And it survived."

"Same energy." She glanced toward the dance floor where their fifteen-year-old daughter swayed with her boyfriend. "She's going to leave us soon. First college, then life."

"She already left. She's been leaving since she turned twelve."

"Marcus." Elena's hand found his, her fingers threading through his like they used to. "You're not supposed to be the zombie at the wedding. That's my role."

"I'm not dead. Just... resting."

"Resting doesn't look like drinking alone by the shrimp tower."

Another lightning strike, closer this time. The guests flinched.

"I keep thinking about that fish," Marcus said. "Swimming in circles its whole life. Never knowing there was an ocean."

"Goldfish don't need oceans. They need clean bowls and someone who remembers to feed them." Elena squeezed his hand. "We were terrible at both."

The storm broke then, rain lashing against the glass, and for the first time in three years, Marcus felt something like hope. It wasn't lightning—no sudden illumination—but something smaller, a spark that might grow if fed properly.

"Dance?" she asked.

"I don't dance."

"Bear with me, Marcus. Just once."

He let her pull him toward the floor, thinking that zombies and bears and foxes could all change, if given the right reason—and maybe, just maybe, so could he.