The Weight of Waiting

The goldfish circled his bowl endlessly, a prisoner of glass and water much like myself. I'd inherited him from Sarah along with this apartment — both too small, both echoing with the memory of her departure. Three months, and still I fed him every morning, watched his orange scales catch sunlight that no longer felt warm.

At work, I faced the bull in the room: the acquisition that would eliminate my department. Harrison, a man whose sheer physical presence seemed to expand with each passing quarter, had scheduled the meeting for Friday. Everyone pretended not to notice, continuing their careful choreography of normalcy. I'd stopped pretending. Instead, I found myself staring at the cable management system beneath my desk, a snarl of black snakes that somehow made more sense than the corporate email titled "Strategic Realignment."

"You're not sleeping," Harrison said, appearing beside my cubicle. His voice lacked its usual bullish certainty.

"Neither are you."

He sighed, something like defeat softening his features. "My daughter left for college yesterday. Empty nest hits harder than I expected."

The admission hung between us, fragile and strange. This man who signed termination notices with the same hand that once patted my shoulder after my divorce was suddenly human. Flawed. Lonely.

"Sarah left," I found myself saying. "Three months ago."

Harrison nodded. "The goldfish was hers?"

"How did you—"

"You talk about him. In meetings. You're distracted." He straightened his tie, but the power dynamic had shifted. "Friday's meeting... maybe we reschedule. Maybe you take some time."

"And my team?"

"Protected. For now."

That evening, I floated another flake of food into the bowl. The goldfish rose to meet it, relentless in his need. Outside, the city hummed along cables of connection and disconnection. I picked up my phone, typed Sarah's name, then deleted it. Some circles you swim alone. But tomorrow, I'd call Harrison. Sometimes even bullfighters need to step out of the ring.