Three Seconds of Memory

The goldfish circled its bowl in the corner of Maya's office, its orange scales catching the afternoon light. Three seconds of memory, they said. Sometimes Maya envied it.

"The merger's happening, Maya." David leaned against her doorframe, running his hand through his hair—salt-and-pepper now, though he was only forty. He looked tired. "They're cleaning house."

Maya pressed her palm flat against her desk, feeling the wood grain. "So we both lose our jobs. We lose the house. Then what?"

"Then we start over. Like we talked about." David stepped inside, closing the door. "The beach house in Florida. Palm trees, no clocks. Just us."

"Just us and what, David? Our savings account?" Maya stood up. "We've been 'starting over' since we were twenty-five. Remember? That dog we rescued? The one that chewed through every pair of shoes you owned because we were never home?"

"Buster was happy, Maya. We made him happy."

"We fed him. That's not the same thing." She walked to the window. Below, the city moved in gray waves. "Every Monday morning I wake up thinking: this is it. This is when I feel like I'm actually living. And every Friday night I realize I spent another week waiting for real life to begin."

David moved behind her, his reflection joining hers in the glass. "The goldfish doesn't worry about next week, Maya. It just swims."

"That's because its brain is the size of a pea." She turned to face him. "Or maybe it's because it knows something we don't. That staying in the bowl isn't living."

"So what are you saying?"

"I'm saying I'm done with the bowl." The words surprised her as they left her mouth. "With the corporate ladder, with the mortgage, with waiting for the right time to have children or take that trip or finally be happy."

David's expression shifted. "What about us?"

"What about us?" A pause. "When was the last time we were happy, David? Really happy?"

The silence stretched between them, filled with all the times they'd skirted the question. The goldfish swam another loop, oblivious to the drowning of a marriage.

"Palm Beach," David said quietly. "We could leave tomorrow."

Maya looked at him—at the man she'd loved for fifteen years, the person who'd once held her hair back when she was sick, who knew her dreams better than she did. "Just you and me?"

"Just us." His palm found hers. "No bowl."

Somewhere in the distance, a dog barked. Maya squeezed his hand. "Tomorrow," she said. "Finally."