What the Goldfish Knows

The goldfish — orange, translucent, perpetually surprised — floated to the glass of its bowl and stared at Maya with what she imagined was judgment. She ignored it, staring instead at her iPhone where Marcus's last message glowed in the silence: *we need to talk.* The charging cable lay coiled like a snake on her nightstand, its plastic casing frayed where she'd bitten it during arguments.

Water lapped against the bowl's edge as the fish turned, its tail flashing in the lamplight. Three years they'd had this fish — longer than their marriage. The goldfish had outlasted their willingness to try.

Marcus was probably at his studio apartment now, avoiding her eyes like he'd been doing for months. He'd become a sphinx lately, enigmatic and withholding, his silence a riddle she'd stopped trying to solve. What had changed? She'd asked herself this until her thoughts felt like water circling a drain — same questions, same answers, nothing new swimming up from the depths.

Her phone vibrated. Marcus again: *can we meet tomorrow?*

Maya watched the goldfish open and close its tiny mouth, creating bubbles that rose and popped at the surface. The fish lived its entire life in ten gallons of water, never questioning its boundaries, while she couldn't stop testing hers.

She typed: *No. I'm done.*

Then she picked up the frayed cable, carried the fish bowl to the balcony, and poured everything into the river below. The goldfish vanished into dark water, finally free.

Maya deleted his number. Some sphinxes, she decided, didn't deserve answers.