What the Goldfish Knew

The spinach sat limp in her Tupperware, steamed into submission three days ago. Elena stared at it during the board meeting, watching Mark's hand rest possessively on Sarah's chair back. His fingers, those same fingers that had texted Elena at 2 AM last February, now traced absent circles on Sarah's blazer.

'I'm just going through something,' he'd told her then, his hair falling over his eyes in that practiced boyish way. 'With Vanessa. It's complicated.' It was always complicated with Mark. His marriages, his divorces, his sudden epiphanies about true love arriving like clockwork every spring.

Sarah laughed at something he whispered, her own hair perfect, cascading in expensive layers that probably cost more than Elena's rent. They made a beautiful couple - the kind that appeared in company newsletters and Christmas cards. Meanwhile, Elena was still eating spinach that had given up on life, realizing she'd been the transition person, the bridge between his second and third mistake.

Her phone buzzed. A reminder: 'Feed fish.' Because she was thirty-four years old, successful and single, and her only dependent was a goldfish she'd won at a company holiday party in a moment of ironic festive spirit. The fish swam in endless circles in its bowl on her windowsill, its mouth opening and closing in silent judgment.

She looked at Mark and Sarah, their heads tilting toward each other like sunflowers seeking light. They'd figure it out eventually. They'd have their messy affair, their scandalous divorce, their redemption arc. And somewhere in between, Mark would find someone else to text at 2 AM, someone else to be his 'complication.'

Elena popped a piece of spinach into her mouth. It tasted like giving up. But her phone had buzzed. Somewhere in her apartment, a goldfish was waiting to be fed. It was enough. It had to be enough.