What Remains in the Bowl

The spinach had gone slimy in the crisper drawer, much like everything else in Sarah's marriage lately. She stood at the kitchen counter, phone to her ear, listening to her mother describe the goldfish funeral ceremony she'd performed that morning for Goldie II, who'd succumbed to what she called 'old age' but Sarah suspected was neglect.

"He was swimming along just fine yesterday," her mother said, her voice cracking. "Then this morning, he was just... floating there. Like he gave up."

Sarah thought about David, asleep in their bedroom, probably still wearing his work clothes. He'd been doing that a lot—coming home, saying he was tired, lying down fully dressed. It had been three weeks since they'd had sex. Two months since they'd really talked, not about bills or schedules or whose turn it was to do the dishes.

"Mom, maybe he was just ready to go," Sarah said, staring at the package of organic spinach she'd bought with such optimism three days ago, planning to make salads, planning to be better, planning to try.

"But that's just it," her mother said. "He wasn't ready. I could tell. He was struggling, you know? Like something was weighing him down. Like he was bearing the weight of the world in that little bowl."

Sarah felt something crack open in her chest. "I have to go, Mom."

She ended the call and walked to the bedroom. David was indeed asleep, or pretending to be. She could tell by the rhythm of his breathing. She sat on the edge of the bed, not touching him.

"Are you swimming?" she whispered.

His breathing changed. "What?"

"Like Goldie II. Are you just swimming in circles in a bowl that's too small? Bearing it because you think you have to?"

David rolled over to face her. His eyes were red-rimmed, exhausted. "I think I'm drowning, Sarah."

"Then let's get you out of the bowl," she said, reaching for his hand. "Or let's find a bigger one. But please—not like this. Not just floating."

Later that night, they made spinach together, standing side by side at the stove, not speaking but communicating in the small spaces between their bodies, the brush of an elbow, the shared breath. It wasn't fixed—these things never are—but it was movement. It was a direction. It was the opposite of floating.