Three Second Memory

She bought the goldfish on a Tuesday, the same day Mark moved out. The pet store clerk assured her they had three-second memories, which seemed appealing—a creature that wouldn't remember her crying on the kitchen floor, wouldn't ask questions she couldn't answer. She named him Aristotle, because irony had always been her love language.

The vitamins sat in a weekly organizer on the counter, a plastic rainbow of pills Mark had arranged before leaving. Vitamin D for bones, Omega-3 for his heart, B-complex for the stress he said was killing him. She swallowed them each morning with coffee gone cold, following his routine like a devotion.

Running had been Mark's idea too. "We should train together," he'd said last spring, handing her neon sneakers she still couldn't afford. Now she ran alone, pavement unforgiving beneath her feet as dusk settled over the neighborhood. Her breath formed clouds in the October chill, each exhalation a prayer to a god who wasn't listening.

A week after Mark left, Aristotle stopped swimming. He floated sideways near the plastic castle, his orange scales dull in the tank's filtered light. She called the pet store in a panic, her voice cracking.

"Maybe he's lonely," the teenager said. "Maybe he's depressed."

Goldfish don't get depressed, she thought, but what did she know? She sat on the couch watching him float, surrounded by cardboard boxes she still hadn't unpacked. The vitamins waited on the counter. The running shoes by the door.

That evening, she laced up anyway. Her route took her past the house where Mark's new apartment was supposed to be, past the park where they'd picnicked, past everything she couldn't think about without falling apart. Her legs burned, her lungs screamed, and she kept going until the streetlights flickered on, until she couldn't feel anything anymore.

When she returned, Aristotle was swimming again.

She sank to the floor, forehead against the cool glass, watching him circle. He'd forgotten whatever had kept him paralyzed, whatever had made him stop. He just kept swimming, each lap new, each moment fresh.

Maybe that was the trick. Not memory. Not holding on. Just swimming, lap after lap, breath after breath, until eventually—maybe—you learned to live in the three seconds you had.

The vitamin organizer sat empty on the counter. She'd finish them, eventually. For now, she watched Aristotle remember nothing, and for the first time since Tuesday, she didn't want to join him.