What Remains in the Bowl

The goldfish swims in tight circles, orange scales catching the morning light. Three weeks since Maya left, and the fish is the only one who hasn't noticed. I feed it every morning, watching the flakes spiral down like snow in a glass blizzard.

The papaya sits too ripe on the counter, its skin mottled with yellow spots. She loved them—said they tasted like summer, like the tropical vacation we never took. Now it rots beside a bag of spinach that's already gone slimy at the edges. I keep meaning to throw them out, like I keep meaning to call her mother, like I keep meaning to change the sheets.

My hat hangs on the hook by the door—the one she bought me in Barcelona, felt brim still bent from the flight home. I haven't worn it since the night she packed. Sometimes I catch myself reaching for it out of habit, then remember I'm not going anywhere. Not anymore.

The water in the fishbowl needs changing. I can see the algae collecting on the glass, a slow green tide that no one's bothered to stop. It reminds me of us—how we let things accumulate until we were drowning in what we couldn't say out loud.

I bought fresh spinach yesterday, standing in the produce aisle for twenty minutes, paralyzed by the sheer number of choices she always made for us. The bag sits in the fridge now, crisp and green, accusing me with its freshness. She would have made a salad. She would have sliced the papaya before it turned. She would have changed the goddamn water.

I sit on the floor and watch the fish swim. "You're next," I tell it. "Once you're gone, there's nothing left."

The fish surfaces, mouth opening and closing in silent bubbles. It doesn't know it's the last thread. It doesn't know that when it dies, I'll finally have to admit that the apartment is empty, that I'm thirty-four and starting over, that some days I forget what she sounded like when she laughed.

I stand up and grab the water jug. Not today. Not yet.