What the Goldfish Knew

The corporate retreat was her idea—a desperate attempt to salvage something that had been rotting from the inside for years. Eleanor sat by the infinity pool, mai tai in hand, watching Richard laugh with the junior analysts. His hand rested too familiarly on Chloe's bare shoulder.

She took a bite of papaya, the flesh sweet and musky on her tongue, the seeds bitter underneath. Just like her marriage. She'd ordered fruit at breakfast, trying to convince herself this tropical nightmare was worth saving. Richard had barely looked at her all morning.

"You're overthinking it," he'd told her in the cab. "You always do."

Always. The word echoed in the hollow space between them.

Chloe tossed something small and orange into the pool. A goldfish, gasping on the ornamental tiles, flopping toward the water's edge. The group erupted in laughter, Richard's bass cut cleaving through the air. Eleanor watched the fish struggle, its gills working, its golden scales flashing in the sun.

She stood up, suddenly furious, and walked to the pool's edge. The fish lay on its side, mouth opening and closing in silent desperation. She reached down and scooped it up, feeling its frantic heartbeat against her palm through the thin membrane of its body.

"What are you doing?" Richard called. "It's a joke, El. Just a joke."

She lowered the fish into the water, watched it right itself, flick its tail, disappear into the deep end. For a moment, it hovered there—gold in the blue—before vanishing completely.

"Some things," she said, turning toward him, "don't find being tossed around funny."

The papaya turned to ash in her mouth. She walked back to the lounge chair, packed her bag, and left them all there by the pool—Richard, Chloe, the corporate retreat, the marriage that had become a cage she'd forgotten was open.