What the Goldfish Knows

The hat sat on the corner of her desk, a crushed felt thing the color of a bruise. Elena hadn't worn it since the funeral, but she couldn't bring herself to throw it away. It smelled like rain and her mother's perfume.

"Are you going to eat lunch at your desk again?"

Elena looked up. David stood in her doorway, wearing that expression—the one that said he knew something she didn't. He was a fox of a man, all sharp angles and clever smiles, always two moves ahead in the corporate game. They'd slept together once, after the holiday party three years ago. He never mentioned it. Neither did she.

"Just finishing something," she said.

He nodded at the fishbowl on her filing cabinet. "How's Goldie?"

"Same."

"People say they have three-second memories," David said, stepping into her office. "But studies show they can remember things for months. They recognize faces. They learn patterns."

Elena's stomach tightened. "Why are you telling me this?"

"Because you've been staring at that fish every day for six months, ever since your mother died. And you still think if you watch it long enough, it'll somehow tell you something you need to hear." He paused. "It won't, Elena. The dead don't speak through fish."

She stood up. "Get out."

"The promotion announcement is tomorrow," he said, already turning. "I just thought you should know I'm not the only one who remembers the holiday party."

He left. Elena sat for a long time, listening to the building settle around her, the hum of computers, the distant laughter from the breakroom. She thought about her mother in that hat, lowering herself into the bathtub. The note on the kitchen table: Some things should not be passed down.

She looked at the goldfish, opening and closing its mouth in the silent water. People said they forgot everything, over and over, a clean slate with each circuit of the bowl. But what if they remembered everything, every time, and just chose to keep swimming?

Elena picked up the hat and put it on. It was too large for her. She looked like a child playing dress-up in her mother's grief. She walked to the fishbowl and pressed her forehead against the glass, until her breath fogged the surface and the fish disappeared, and for a moment, so did she.