What Goldfish Forget

Sarah stood in the breakroom, staring at the plastic bowl of wilted spinach someone had left on the counter. Three days since Mark died, and the office had already moved on. His desk was being cleared out. His things were in boxes.

"You taking the fish?" Janet asked, not looking up from her phone.

"The what?"

"The goldfish. Mark's. It's in that little bowl on his windowsill. Maintenance says they're flushing it Friday."

Sarah had never noticed it before. There it was—a single goldfish swimming in lazy circles, no bigger than her thumb, orange against the gray corporate carpet of Mark's cubicle.

"I'll take it," she heard herself say.

That evening, she carried the bowl home like it was made of glass. Set it on her kitchen counter. Watched the fish swim. Spinach and rotisserie chicken on a plate beside it. She hadn't eaten properly since the funeral.

The truth was, she'd been sleeping with Mark for six months. No one knew. They were careful. He was married—technically separated, living in different cities, but still. She was the other woman. Now she was a widow who couldn't grieve publicly.

"They say goldfish have three-second memories," she whispered to the bowl. "You probably won't even remember this tank tomorrow."

Her phone buzzed. Mark's wife. "Did he keep anything at your place? I'm trying to sort through his things."

Sarah's thumb hovered. Delete.

She put a piece of spinach in the fish bowl. Watched it float. The fish ignored it.

At work the next morning, the new department head stood in the conference room, arms crossed, berating the team for missed targets. A bull in a china shop, all testosterone and no tact. Sarah stared at him and thought about how Mark used to sneak into her office at lunch, lock the door, press her against the filing cabinet.

"You with us, Sarah?"

"Always," she said.

She came home to the fish bowl that night. Something was different. The spinach was gone. The goldfish was at the glass, watching her.

They were wrong about the memory thing. She looked it up—goldfish remember for months. They recognize faces. They learn tricks.

Sarah pressed her finger to the glass. The fish swam to it, hovered there.

"You knew him too," she said.

It had been three weeks. The spinach in her fridge was gone, replaced with takeout containers. The fish was swimming in a proper tank now, with a little castle and colorful gravel. She'd told Janet about Mark. Janet had cried, held her hand on the balcony while they smoked.

Some things you forget. Some things you carry.

Sarah dropped a pinch of fish food into the tank. The goldfish rose to meet it, orange scales flashing in the lamp light.

"We're going to be okay," she promised. Neither of them believed it yet.

But they would remember.