What We Keep

Margaret's silver hair fell across her eyes as she packed the last box. David watched from the doorway, his hands useless at his sides. They'd agreed on this division of assets with the brutal efficiency of corporate lawyers, which they both were.

"The dog stays with me," she said, not looking up. Barnaby, their aging golden retriever, sensed the tension and whined from his bed.

"I know. We discussed this."

"And you're taking the cat?"

"Yes. Luna and I have an understanding."

The goldfish bowl sat on the kitchen counter, a final, absurd arbiter. They'd won it at a carnival twelve years ago, drunk on neon lights and possibility. The fish had survived three moves, David's DUI, Margaret's miscarriage, and now this.

"You take him," she said. "I can't. He's... too much."

"He's a fish, Margaret. He needs pellets. That's it."

She laughed, sharp and cracked. "Everything needs something. That's the problem."

The silence stretched. Outside, rain blurred the city lights.

"I'm making spinach for dinner," he said suddenly, the words weirdly formal between them. "Would you..."

She turned then, her hair—still thick, still the color he'd fallen for—catching the lamplight. "David."

"Just dinner. Before you go."

She hesitated. Then: "Okay."

They ate at the island, on opposite sides, the goldfish watching between them. The spinach was overcooked, the silence heavy with unsaid things. Their hands brushed when she reached for salt. They both flinched.

"Remember," she said softly, "when we thought the hard part would be agreeing on names?"

He nodded. They'd spent weeks choosing names for children who never came.

Barnaby padded to Margaret and rested his chin on her knee. She buried her fingers in his fur, something breaking open in her face.

"This isn't right," she whispered. "None of this is right."

"No," he said. "It isn't."

The goldfish swam in endless circles, innocent as gravity. The cat wound around David's legs. The dog pressed closer to Margaret. And somewhere beneath the exhaustion and the carefully rehearsed reasons, something old and stubborn stirred.

"I don't want to go," she said.

"Then don't."

The spinach grew cold. No one moved. Outside, the rain kept falling, indifferent to human negotiations, washing the city clean.