The Weight of Empty Things

The pool in the backyard had turned the color of old jade. Marcus stood at the sliding glass door, coffee mug cold in his hands, staring at the water that hadn't circulated since last summer. Elena had been the one who kept it crystal clear, who tested the pH levels with scientific precision, who'd float on her back during summer twilights telling him she felt weightless there.

Now it was just a stagnant basin collecting leaves and memories.

He moved through the house like something undead — not the cinematic kind with outstretched arms and groaning, but the ordinary sort that showed up to work and nodded at the right times and felt hollowed out by the slow erosion of grief. His colleagues didn't notice. They talked about their weekends, their kids' **baseball** games, their renovations. Marcus nodded and smiled and felt like he was performing his own life from a distance.

"You're so composed," his sister had told him at the funeral, and he'd wondered if composure was just another word for numbness.

In the living room, the **cable** box blinked 12:00 in an endless loop. He hadn't bothered reprogramming it after the power outage three weeks ago. Sometimes at 3 AM he'd sit in the dark watching infomercials and nature documentaries, desperate for something that could hold his attention for more than thirty seconds. Anything to outrun his own mind.

Elena had bought the **goldfish** on a whim three years ago. "We need something alive in here," she'd said, pouring herself another glass of wine after her third miscarriage. They'd named him Horace, which was ridiculous for a fish, but Elena had always found humor in inappropriate places. Horace had outlasted three relationship counselors and two moves.

Now the bowl sat on the kitchen counter, the water cloudy. Marcus hadn't fed him in four days.

He stared at the fish suspended in the cloudy water, its orange scales dull, its movements sluggish. It circled the same small radius, over and over, and Marcus wondered if it remembered the way Elena used to tap the glass with her manicured finger, or if fish really did live in perpetual present tense, unable to hold onto anything beyond the moment they were swimming through.

He poured the fish into a Tupperware container and drove to the park where they'd scattered her ashes. The pond there was alive with turtles and frogs and children feeding ducks. He waded in up to his knees and tipped the container.

"Go find her," he whispered, watching the orange flash disappear into the murk.

That night, for the first time in months, he slept without dreaming of water.