What Remains in the Bowl

The goldfish was still alive when David moved out. Three months later, it's the only thing in the apartment that still needs me.

I stand in front of the tank, watching its orange scales flash in the dim light. David bought it on impulse during that week we both pretended we were happy—a spontaneous purchase from a street fair, carried home in a plastic bag that swayed between us like a pendulum. We named it Fortuna. Fortuna the lucky. The joke was never funny.

The refrigerator is nearly empty now, save for a bag of spinach that's been slowly wilting in the crisper drawer. I'd bought it for the salad I was going to make the night David told me he'd met someone else. Someone younger. Someone who didn't spend their evenings worrying about their cholesterol levels or obsessively researching which vitamin supplements might stave off the inevitable decay of middle age.

"You're so careful with yourself," he'd said, his voice soft with pity. "Like you're trying to preserve something that's already gone."

I look at the spinach now, leaves turning translucent where they've pressed against the plastic. The expiration date passed three days ago. I haven't bothered to throw it out.

Fortuna swims to the surface, mouth opening and closing in that desperate, endless begging. I tap the glass—something David always did, though I'd asked him not to. The fish flinches.

On the counter, the vitamin bottle sits next to my keys. D3, Omega-3, B-complex. A daily ritual of denial. David stopped taking his months ago, said he'd rather live honestly than die slowly. I don't know if he meant it or if that was just something you say when you're forty-two and suddenly free again.

I drop a pinch of food into the tank. Fortuna tears at it, voracious and blind. The apartment is so quiet now. In the bedroom, the closet is half-empty. In the bathroom, his toothbrush is gone. But here, in this small illuminated rectangle, life continues.

I reach for the spinach bag, pull out a handful of slimy leaves, and carry them to the toilet. One flush and they're gone, spiraling into darkness like everything else I've been holding onto. I return to the tank and watch the fish circle—endlessly, mindlessly, beautifully—until my own reflection fades from the glass.