The Weight of Water

The goldfish circled his bowl, orange scales catching the afternoon light that slanted through Maya's blinds. I'd promised to feed him—she'd named him Bartholomew, absurdly—but watching him make the same endless loop made something tight in my chest loosen. At least one of us was comfortable with repetition.

Maya's iPhone sat on the counter where she'd left it three weeks ago when she'd flown to London for the promotion she'd beaten me out of. The charging cable was still coiled beside it like a dark snake. I hadn't touched it. Didn't want to see if her password had changed, if the photos we'd taken at the company holiday party were still saved, if she'd archived seven years of friendship along with her cubicle.

We'd worked the same sales floor for three years before the position opened up. We studied together. celebrated together, got drunk on cheap wine and complained about our manager together. I thought we were building something. She thought she was building a career.

The water in Bartholomew's bowl needed changing. The glass showed fingerprints, probably mine. I stared at my distorted reflection and wondered what Maya had said about me when she packed her office. Did she mention our coffee runs? The nights I covered when her mother was sick? Or did she just say I was nice, but nice doesn't get you to London.

I reached for the cable instead, plugged it in. The screen lit up—my own face smiling back from her wallpaper. The photo was from our last lunch, before the interview process started, before everything became competition. We looked happy. We looked like friends.

The fish swam to the surface, mouth opening and closing in silent bubbles. I dropped food flakes, watched him rise to greedily consume them, then turn back to his endless circuit.

Some creatures thrive in small spaces. Some need room to grow. I unplugged the phone, left it dark on the counter, and let myself out of Maya's apartment, locking the door behind me.