What Remains in the Bowl

The goldfish circled its bowl endlessly, the same orange flash against the glass, while Marcus packed the last of Elena's books into cardboard boxes. Three years together reduced to boxes and a single pet neither of them remembered to feed until the water went cloudy.

"You can keep him," Elena said from the doorway. She didn't mean the fish.

Marcus nodded, unable to trust his voice. Outside, summer heat rippled off the pavement. They'd met during that baseball game at the park—she'd caught his home run when it sailed over the fence, laughing as she handed it back. That summer had tasted like sunscreen and possibility. Now it tasted like dust.

"The spinach in the crisper," he said finally. "It's probably rotten by now."

"I never liked it anyway," she replied, and that was the truth of it: all the small accommodations they'd made for each other, every slightly overcooked meal, every compromise, all meaningless now.

She walked out without touching him, and Marcus stood alone in their apartment that was suddenly just his apartment. The goldfish swam to the surface, mouth opening and closing in silent bubbles, and Marcus pressed his palm against the cool glass. He thought about drowning, about how easy it would be to slip beneath something—the water, the bed, the weight of days that all felt the same.

Instead, he went to the kitchen. The spinach was indeed slimy and black. He threw it out, then sat on the floor with his back against the cabinets, watching the fish swim its endless circles, wondering who would remember to feed it now, wondering if he even remembered how to feed himself.