What Remains in the Bowl

Margaret counted the vitamins in her palm—two fish oil capsules, one calcium, a multivitamin that promised eternal youth if not happiness. She swallowed them dry, the same ritual every morning, while David stood at the bathroom mirror running his fingers through thinning hair. The hair he'd lost was not just vanishing; it was escaping their marriage, she'd thought more than once.

"The goldfish isn't eating," David said, not meeting her eyes in the mirror. Their shared reflection looked like strangers who'd met at a funeral.

"Maybe he's lonely. Maybe he knows."

"Fish don't know anything, Margaret. That's the point."

They'd bought the goldfish at a carnival thirteen years ago, the night David forgot their anniversary and came home with a goldfish in a plastic bag instead of the jewelry she'd hinted about for months. She'd named him Anniversary, bitterly. He'd lived far longer than any carnival goldfish had a right to, swimming in silent judgment through two apartments, one house, and now the slow dissolution of everything they'd built.

David left for work without kissing her. The cable guy was coming between noon and four—she'd finally cancelled their cable subscription after David moved into the guest room three months ago. No reason to pay for silence they could get for free.

The cable guy arrived at 2:17, younger than their marriage, with rough hands and eyes that didn't quite meet hers. As he worked behind the television, Margaret watched the goldfish swim in endless circles, the same pattern, over and over, like how they'd circled each other for years, careful not to collide, careful not to touch.

"Done," the cable guy said, winding up his cords. "You can stream everything now. Better shows, anyway."

She paid him and stood alone in the living room, the television dark, the goldfish still swimming. She took her evening vitamins, caught her reflection in the fishbowl's curved glass—her hair, still mostly dark, her eyes, still something like alive.

"You can go now, too," she whispered to the fish, and something in its endless circling seemed to agree.