What the Goldfish Knew

The cable guy was in his forties, with hands that knew their way around coaxial threads the way some men know scripture. He worked without speaking, and I watched him from the kitchen doorway, half-empty coffee cup warming my palm.

On the counter, the goldfish bowl caught morning light. We'd bought them on impulse—three for five dollars at a pet store that smelled of cedar and unsold puppies. Now only one remained, orange as a sunset, opening and closing its mouth in perpetual, silent argument.

"There," the cable guy said, testing the connection. A baseball game bloomed to life on the screen—spring training, the announcers discussing pitching rotations with the intensity of men discussing the fate of nations.

And that's when I saw it.

Paused on the DVR from three nights ago: a game I'd been asleep for. But there, in the background as Tom walked past the camera with a beer—wearing a shirt I'd never seen before. Behind him on our television: the very cable menu that only appeared when you'd just changed channels or ordered something. Something live. Something that cost money.

The goldfish swam to the front of its bowl, staring at me with eyes that knew everything.

I thought of us swimming in Lake Michigan last July, how Tom had stayed on the beach claiming he'd eaten something wrong, how I'd come back to find him gone from the towel, his phone blowing up with texts he'd claim were work. How I'd believed him because belief is easier than the alternative.

Outside, summer gathered itself. The sky went violet and bruised. Lightning struck somewhere close—the sound followed instantly, like a crack of doom. The goldfish darted to the bottom of its bowl.

The cable guy was packing his tools. "Storm coming," he said, and it wasn't a question. "You'll want to keep that disconnected if it gets bad."

"Yes," I said. "Yes, I will."

He left, and I stood in the living room as the first rain lashed the windows. Somewhere a siren began. The baseball game continued on television, bright and impossible, players who'd never know they'd destroyed a marriage.

The goldfish rose to the surface, breaking water with a small, perfect mouth. I fed it, watching the flakes spiral down like snow, like time, like all the things I should have said.