Three Years on the Mantel

Maggie's palm went numb around her wine glass. Three years of marriage, distilled into this: Brent staring at the television while she traced the condensation on the restaurant window, desperate to be somewhere else.

"Remember that baseball game?" he asked, not turning away from the screen. "Our first date?"

She did remember. The stadium lights, the collective roar when their team hit a home run, the way he'd looked at her like she was the only person in the crowd. He'd bought her a team hat that night, pink and ridiculous, and she'd worn it until the brim frayed. It still sat in her closet, buried under sweaters she hadn't worn since college.

"Yeah," she said.

Her mind drifted instead to last week, to the pet store where she'd stood paralyzed in front of a tank full of goldfish, remembering how her mother used to say they had three-second memories. Imagine it—living in perpetual novelty, every lap around the bowl a fresh discovery. No past to haunt you. No future to dread.

Brent ordered another round of drinks. His phone buzzed on the table—work, always work—and he didn't even check it. Just let it vibrate against the wood like a tiny, insistent heart.

Maggie pressed her palm flat against the cool glass. The city outside blurred into streaks of light and shadow. In the reflection, she saw herself—tired eyes, lips parted around words she'd been swallowing for months.

The goldfish had it right. Sometimes the only way to survive was to forget. But sometimes, you had to remember everything all at once before you could move forward.

She reached across the table and covered Brent's hand with hers. He finally turned, eyes softening with something like hope.

"Brent," she said, "we need to talk."

His phone stopped buzzing. The moment stretched between them, fragile and terrifying. Outside, rain began to fall, washing the city clean.