The Weight of Small Things

Mara stood in the center of what used to be their living room, cardboard boxes stacked like walls around her. In her hands: a fedora she'd bought him at a thrift store in Chicago, during that weekend they'd pretended to be different people.

"You're taking the hat?" Daniel asked from the doorway. He hadn't shaved in three days. His voice sounded like it had to travel through water to reach her.

"It's mine. I bought it."

"Right. Everything's so clear-cut now."

He gestured toward the aquarium on the windowsill. Inside, a single goldfish — Sergeant Pepper — swam in endless laps, its orange scales catching the afternoon light. They'd bought the tank on their first anniversary, promised each other they'd fill it with life. Five years later, just one fish remained, outlasting three roommates, two apartments, and apparently, their marriage.

"What happens to him?" she asked.

Daniel shrugged. "You never wanted pets. You said they were anchors."

"I said that when we were twenty-three. I also said I'd never wear a hat, and you said you'd never work in insurance. People change, Daniel."

"Some things don't." He walked to the window, tapped the glass. The fish darted away. "Remember that baseball game? Fourth of July, two years ago? We caught that foul ball together."

She did remember. His hands over hers on the makeshift glove she'd made from her purse. The way he'd looked at her like she was the only person in the stadium, sweat running down both their faces, beer and hot dog grease and the raw, messy thrill of connection. They'd gone home and had sex on the living room floor, right beside the aquarium. Sergeant Pepper had watched them through the glass.

"The fish died last week," Daniel said quietly.

Mara stared at him. The orange shape still moved through the water. "That's not —"

"That's not Sergeant Pepper. I replaced him. He died the day you told me you wanted a divorce." His voice cracked. "I couldn't bear to tell you. You were already carrying so much guilt."

She set the hat on top of a box. Her hands were shaking.

"Why didn't you say anything?"

"Because I thought maybe if you didn't know, if you thought something was still alive, you might come back. For the fish, if not for me."

Mara looked at the swimming shape, now suspended in the corner of the tank. It wasn't memory. It wasn't continuity. It was just an object in motion, looking like the thing it replaced.

"You think I left because nothing was alive anymore," she said. "But I left because I was tired of pretending things were okay when they weren't. Even this — the fish, Daniel? Jesus."

"I don't know what's real anymore," he said. "I don't know what matters."

She picked up the hat again, turned it over in her hands.

"That weekend in Chicago. I told you I loved you for the first time wearing this hat."

"I remember."

"I don't want the hat, Daniel. I wanted to know if you remembered."

She set it down on the floor. Between them.

"I'm still in love with you," he said. "I just don't know how to be married to you."

"Okay," she said. "That's honest. That's something."

They stood there as the room darkened around them, neither moving toward the other, neither turning away. Somewhere in the distance, someone was playing catch — the rhythmic thud of a baseball hitting leather, the sound of practice, of beginning again and again, of hands learning how to hold on.