Three Second Memory

Marcus stood in the kitchen, counting pills. Vitamin D, omega-3, magnesium, B-complex—a rainbow of capsules promising to fix what was broken. At forty-seven, he'd started believing that if he just optimized the inputs, the output might stop feeling so hollow.

"You're not eating," Sarah had said, the night she left. She'd packed her things with military precision, while he'd stood by the fish tank, watching their daughter's goldfish drift through its pointless loops.

He opened the cabinet where they kept the imported sardines in tomato sauce—Sarah's favorite. The cabinet was empty. Of course. She'd taken them.

The padel club had been his idea. Something they could do together, he'd told her. A new hobby to restart the engine of their marriage. They'd played every Sunday for three months, her laughter genuine, his careful. Then came the Sunday he'd found her crying in the parking lot afterward, leaning against someone else's car.

"David," she'd said. "From the Tuesday league."

David with the nice backhand and the failed marriage. David who understood.

Marcus swallowed his vitamins without water. They stuck in his throat like accusations.

In Emma's room, the goldfish swam its endless circles, its orange scales catching the morning light. They said goldfish had three-second memories. Maybe that was a gift. Maybe the trick was forgetting before it hurt.

His phone buzzed. A text from Sarah: "Can you pick up Emma from school? I'm running late."

David. She was with David.

Marcus typed back: "Of course."

He walked past the paddle rack in the hallway, the racquet she'd given him for his birthday still gathering dust. He could call David. Challenge him. But what would be the point?

The goldfish surfaced, mouth opening and closing in silent prayer. Marcus dropped an algae pellet into the tank. Watched it drift down, slow and inevitable.

Some things, you had to feed. Some things, you just had to let swim their circles, trusting they'd forget what they couldn't keep anyway.