What the Cat Knew

Margaret stood at the kitchen counter, filling the glass bowl with tap water. The goldfish—Orange Julius, named by her six-year-old granddaughter—circled lazily, oblivious to the fact that Margaret's husband of forty-two years had moved out three days ago.

The cat, Barnaby, wound around her ankles, purring with malicious contentment. He'd always preferred Richard. Traitor.

"You miss him too," she whispered to the cat, setting the food bowl down. Barnaby ignored her, as cats do when they sense human weakness.

The goldfish surfaced, mouth opening and closing in silent commentary. Margaret watched him swim—no, not swim. Drift. That was the word. Like she'd been drifting through her marriage since the kids left, since Richard stopped seeing her as a woman and started seeing her as—what? A fixture? Reliable, dull, as predictable as the water bill.

Richard's last words to her: "You're like that damn fish, Margaret. Just going in circles, never anywhere new."

She'd slapped him. She'd never slapped anyone in her life.

Now the apartment felt too large, filled with Richard's absence and the smell of his pipe tobacco she'd hated for decades. The goldfish had been Eloise's Christmas present—a live thing she couldn't kill, thank you very much. Margaret had inherited it when her daughter decided a goldfish was "too much responsibility" for a first-grader.

Too much responsibility. The irony wasn't lost on her.

Barnaby jumped onto the counter, tail twitching, staring at Orange Julius with predatory interest. Margaret watched him, feeling something shift in her chest. A strange, unfamiliar lightness.

"Go ahead," she told the cat. "See if I care."

Barnaby looked at her, then back at the fish. Then, with a yawn that seemed to mock her entire existence, he curled up on the countertop and closed his eyes.

Margaret laughed. It sounded rusty, like a door not opened in years. She picked up the glass bowl, carried it to the living room window where the afternoon light would hit it just so, making Orange Julius flash and shimmer like something alive and extraordinary.

Tomorrow she'd buy another fish. A tropical one. Bright blue. Something that swam with purpose.

The cat opened one yellow eye, watching her, and Margaret thought—just maybe—he knew exactly what she was planning.