What the Goldfish Knew

The corporate floor hummed with that particular frequency that makes your teeth ache. Marcus sat at his desk, forty-two years old and feeling like a zombie in a suit. The ethernet cable snaked across his carpet like a plastic umbilical cord, tethering him to a system that had been draining him dry for twelve years.

His phone buzzed. Sarah again.

'Can we talk?'

He stared at the goldfish bowl on his desk. Gerald, rescued from his daughter's college dorm last month, swam in endless circles. Sometimes Marcus envied him. Three-second memory. No past mistakes haunting you at 3 AM. Just swim, eat, repeat.

The dog had died two weeks ago. Barnaby, the golden retriever they'd adopted when they first moved in together. Sarah had taken it hard—said Marcus was never home anyway. She wasn't wrong. The promotion had come with longer hours, more stress, a better title that meant less of everything that mattered.

He remembered their wedding vows. 'For better or worse.' They'd forgotten to specify how much worse.

Gerald surfaced, blowing bubbles. Marcus tapped the glass. 'You're the lucky one, buddy.'

His boss appeared in the doorway. 'The client presentation moved up. You're running the show.'

'Now?'

'Now, Marcus. This is what we talked about. Stepping up.'

He stood, knees popping. His body was staging a mutiny. The fluorescent lights buzzed louder.

Outside, autumn leaves skittered across the sidewalk. A woman walked a husky, the dog pulling toward freedom. Marcus thought about his running shoes gathering dust in the closet. Sarah had bought them for his birthday last year. Said he needed an outlet. He'd used them twice.

The zombie feeling intensified. Numb feet moving forward, brain disengaged, something else piloting his body through the motions.

His phone lit up again. 'I'm staying at mom's. Take your time.'

Take your time.

Gerald did another lap.

Marcus sat back down. The cable pulsed with data, emails, expectations. He thought about what he was running toward, and what he was running from, and how he couldn't remember the last time he'd chosen a direction at all.

He picked up his phone. Called Sarah.

'I quit,' he said.

'What?'

'The job. I'm coming home. We can figure out the rest.'

Gerald swam to the surface, waiting.

Marcus packed his desk. Everything fit in one box.