Three Seconds

I catch her watching me again. Elena. Thirty-five with sharp eyeliner and fox-red hair that falls in deliberate waves, like she's practiced the art of looking tousled in all the right ways. She smiles when our eyes meet—sympathetic, slightly confused.

"You were going to tell us about the Johnson account," she says, tilting her head. "Remember?"

The room expects an answer. Eight faces turned toward me, waiting.

I don't remember. But I remember something else.

The goldfish lives in a bowl on Marcus's desk, orange and translucent, swimming endless circles. Three seconds of memory, the saying goes. That's all any of us gets—three seconds before we forget what we know, who we are, what we've seen. Before we forget whose handwriting is on that document. Who sent that email at 2 AM. Who really did the work.

Marcus catches me staring at the fish. "Not much of a life, is it?" he whispers, grinning. "Just swimming. Eating. Forgetting. Starting over."

He reaches into the bowl with his bare hand—professionally unsanitary—and the fish doesn't even flinch. It doesn't remember him reaching in yesterday. And the day before. It only knows the hand is there now, and now, and now again.

I know I wrote the Johnson proposal. I remember the research, the late hours, the coffee-stained notebook filled with figures that didn't add up until they finally did. But when I opened my laptop Monday morning, the document was gone. Not just deleted—replaced.

Elena's name on the header.

"Just wanted to freshen it up," she'd said, leaning against my cubicle wall. "You seemed tired. I didn't want you to stress."

The fish circles. The meeting circles. I can feel them watching, waiting.

I could speak. Could say I have the notebook in my bag. Could say I saved the drafts to a personal drive. Could pull out the printed version marked up in my own distinctive scrawl—a messy sprawl of capitals and underlines, letters that lean aggressively forward like they're running from something. My hair that morning was pulled back too tight, headache pressing against my skull, and I remember thinking: document everything. Save everything. Keep proof.

But instead I watch the goldfish forget.

And I know: some days, you swim. Some days, you're eaten.

Today, I'm learning to forget.

I open my notebook to a blank page. Pick up my pen.

"Go ahead, Elena," I say. "Tell us about Johnson."

Outside the window, something moves in the landscaping—a flash of russet fur, sharp ears, a tail like an orange flame against the concrete. A fox watching through the glass, eyes knowing.

The fish circles. The fox watches. I forget.