What Remains at the Table

The goldfish drifted to the glass surface, its mouth opening and closing in silent accusation, as if it knew something Maya didn't. She watched its orange scales flash in the kitchen's pendant light while David pushed spinach around his plate with surgical precision.

"You're not eating," she said, her voice flat.

"Not hungry."

The iphone on the table lit up—his sister, again—and David's palm covered the screen instinctively. He'd been doing that all week. Blocking her view, blocking her out. The gesture was so practiced now it made Maya's chest ache.

Barnaby, their elderly golden retriever, sighed heavily under the table, resting his chin on Maya's foot. Even the dog knew. They all knew.

"Sarah called me," Maya said. "She saw your car at her place last night."

David's fork clattered against ceramic. The spinach on his plate was reduced to a shredded mess of green.

"It's not what you think."

"Isn't it?"

"We were just—"

"Just what? Just talking until 3 AM? Just needing space? Just whatever bullshit story you've prepared?"

Maya's laugh came out brittle, sharp as glass. She thought about how she'd found the goldfood dead last month, floating belly-up, and how David had immediately replaced it without telling her. As if emotions were things that could be swapped out, upgraded, made invisible.

"I love you," he said, but his eyes kept darting to his phone.

"No," she said, standing up. "You love who I was when I wasn't asking questions."

The goldfish turned away from the glass, indifferent to the drowning happening in the kitchen. Maya's palm pressed against the table's edge, steadying herself. She thought about all the meals they'd shared here, all the conversations that had seemed complete but were actually just pauses.

"I'm staying with Jen tonight," she said.

David's phone buzzed again. He didn't answer.

Barnaby stood up, tail wagging tentatively, following Maya to the door. The goldfish kept swimming, loops of endless, meaningless motion in its too-small tank.