What Remains in the Bowl

The funeral was three days ago—her husband's affair partner had died, and Elena found herself mourning a stranger more than her marriage. She felt like a **zombie** moving through her own life, present in body but absent in everything that mattered.

Her **cat**, Binx, rubbed against her ankle, the only creature who still seemed to need her. At the kitchen table, she stared at the **goldfish** bowl where nothing swam anymore. The fish had been Jonathan's idea, something to "liven up the place." Now it was just a glass prison for a dead thing she couldn't bring herself to flush.

The dinner invitation had arrived that morning—his sister, who still somehow thought they should "talk things through." Elena imagined herself there, chewing **spinach** stuck in her teeth, pretending everything was salvageable. The thought exhausted her.

At work, her boss continued to act like a **bull** in a china shop, demanding productivity she couldn't summon. He'd given her speech about "keeping personal issues personal" that morning, his eyes avoiding hers entirely. Everyone knew. Everyone pretended not to.

She stood at the sink, scrubbing a plate that was already clean. The water ran cold. Binx meowed from the doorway.

"I know," she said aloud. "We're still here."

The goldfish bowl caught the afternoon light, casting wavery shadows across the counter. She could replace the fish. Buy another orange comet that would swim in endless circles, none the wiser. But something about the empty bowl felt more honest.

She turned off the water. The house settled into silence around her. This was what remained: the space between what she'd expected and what she'd actually gotten. The quiet work of beginning again.