Three Seconds in the Dark

The goldfish floated at the top of its bowl, orange against the gray light of the apartment. Three years, and this was all that remained of them.

Emma sat on the floor surrounded by boxes, packing up ten years of marriage. Her hair fell across her face in tangled waves—she hadn't bothered to tie it back in days. In the bathroom, she'd found his comb, the dark strands still caught in its teeth. That's what she'd held onto all these years: the way he'd play with her hair while watching TV, his fingers absently twisting the strands around his fingertips.

Now she was dismantling everything.

The refrigerator held exactly three items: a bottle of white wine, a forgotten takeout container, and a bag of spinach that had turned to slime in the crisper drawer. She remembered buying it last week, still making plans as if the foundation wasn't already cracking. They'd argued about spinach once—she hated it, he loved it sautéed with garlic. A compromise of opposing desires, stretched thin across years.

The cable box blinked 12:00 in the bedroom. She'd called to cancel the service this morning, the customer service rep cheerfully informing her she was still under contract. Another eighteen months of payments for something she'd never use. Like the lease on this apartment. Like the wedding dress hanging in the closet she couldn't bring herself to donate.

Her phone buzzed. His name lit up the screen.

"Did you feed the fish?"

"No," she said. "You can pick him up tomorrow."

"Emma."

"What, Daniel? You want the goldfish? Come get the goldfish. You want your dishes? Come get your dishes. You want your grandmother's china? It's in the box by the door."

Silence stretched between them, thin and trembling.

"I'm sorry," he said finally.

"I know. So am I."

She ended the call and looked at the fish again. People said goldfish had three-second memories, but it wasn't true. They remembered. They learned. They just kept swimming anyway.

Emma stood up and sprinkled a few flakes into the bowl. The fish darted upward, orange flashing in the gray light. Tomorrow Daniel would come. Tomorrow this place would be empty. Tonight, she'd feed the fish one last time, drink the wine, and maybe—just maybe—watch some cable TV before the service cut off at midnight.