What We Feed

I watched David stare at the television, another evening numbed by cable news flickering across his tired features. The apartment felt suffocating, our once vibrant connection withering like neglected houseplants.

A plastic bowl of wilted spinach sat between us, a pathetic attempt at dinner mirroring our deteriorating relationship. We used to cook together, laughing, dancing, now just surviving each other's presence in silence.

Across the room, the goldfish bowl caught my eye—Stanley, barely moving, his orange scales fading. David had won him at a carnival three years ago, a prize after too many beers and games. We promised to take care of him, but like our marriage, we'd forgotten.

"A riddle," I said, my voice breaking the room's heavy silence. David glanced over, confused. I continued, "The sphinx asked: what creature walks on four legs in the morning, two at noon, and three in the evening?"

David shrugged, turning back to the television. The answer echoed in my mind: a human being crawling, walking upright, then leaning on a cane in old age. But sitting here, I thought about us—how we started on our own two feet, now stumbling, unsure if we'd ever need that third support.

The goldfish rose to the surface, gulping air. I watched its desperate movements, seeing our own marriage reflected in those struggling breaths. We were both drowning, too proud to admit we couldn't remember how to swim.

"David," I whispered, "Stanley's dying."

He muted the television but didn't turn around. "Everything dies, Maya. Even goldfish."

I stared at the spinach, imagining its vibrant green life, now wilted and neglected. Some things die because they must. Others die because we forget to feed them. The distinction matters more than you might think.

The next morning, I found Stanley floating on the surface, a small orange life now stilled. I flushed him without ceremony, then called my mother to ask about her spare room.