What the Goldfish Knew

The morning after the funeral, I found myself standing by the pool, staring into water so clear it seemed artificial. Elena had asked me to feed the goldfish while she was away arranging her brother's affairs. The fish—named Bubbles, because David never was one for creativity—circled his bowl with the kind of relentless optimism I'd lost somewhere around my third divorce.

I hadn't seen David in fifteen years, not since the night I'd called him a coward for refusing to be my best man at a wedding to a woman he knew was sleeping with my business partner. He'd been right, of course. That was the thing about David—he was never a bull in the china shop like me. He was the guy who carefully packed the china before the bull arrived.

The goldfish surfaced, mouth opening and closing in silent petition. I dropped in a pinch of food, watching the flakes drift like snow in some miniature, water-filled world.

I'd spent three decades as a bull in every market I entered—stocks, real estate, relationships. I charged forward, horns down, never noticing who got gored along the way. David used to say I measured life in acquisitions rather than moments. Standing there in Elena's backyard, with the pool reflecting a sky too blue for grief, I wondered if goldfish kept swimming because they believed something better lay ahead, or if they'd simply forgotten they'd already seen every rock their world contained.

The backyard was silent except for the pool's mechanical hum. I'd told myself I was here for Elena, but the truth was heavier: I needed to know if David had ever hated me. If he'd spent his final months wishing I'd drown myself in a pool of my own making.

Bubbles swam to the glass, pressing against it like he was trying to escape something. Or maybe reach something. I pressed my finger to the other side, and for a moment, we were connected by nothing more substantial than thin glass and the weight of living in worlds too small to contain us.