What Floats

The goldfish had survived longer than their marriage.

Mara stood in the center of what used to be their dining room, watching the orange fish dart through cloudy green **water**. David had left three weeks ago, but somehow this creature — a carnival prize from their second date — remained, swimming circles in its glass prison on the windowsill.

Her **iPhone** buzzed on the counter. Probably David again, asking about the books. Or the mail. Or some other mundane remnant of a life they'd spent seven years building, now dismantled into boxes and lawyer fees.

She ignored it.

Outside, a jogger passed in a red beanie, **running** through the drizzle like she was escaping something. Mara envied her. The simple clarity of forward motion. The way problems could be outpaced.

From her coat rack, David's old fedora still hung where he'd left it that final morning. He'd worn the **hat** to their wedding, to his father's funeral, to every job interview he'd ever failed. She should have thrown it out with the rest of his things, but something stayed her hand each time she reached for it.

The fish rose to the surface, mouth opening and closing in silent supplication. Food. Or maybe just the shape of need itself.

She picked up her phone at last. David's message: "Can we talk?"

Beneath it, an unsent draft she'd started typing two nights ago, drunk on wine three years past its prime: "I never told you about the baby. The one before we met, the one I ended at twenty-two because I thought I wasn't ready. I think that's why I could never forgive you for not wanting them later. I think that's why I could never forgive myself."

Her thumb hovered over send.

The goldfish stirred the water with its tail, creating ripples that caught the gray light filtering through the window. Small movements, unseen consequences. The way everything touches everything else.

Mara deleted the draft. Then she typed: "Come by at six. Bring a bowl."