What We Keep

The goldfish watched us through the glass, its orange scales catching the last light of our seventh anniversary dinner. Marcus had ordered papaya sorbet for dessert — same as our honeymoon in Kauai, when everything still felt possible and the future was a blank page we couldn't wait to write on.

"It's not working, is it?" I said, staring at the melting sorbet instead of him.

Marcus set his spoon down. The tiny clink echoed in our suddenly quiet apartment. "No. But I don't know what else to try."

We'd been saying that for six months. Trying therapy, trying date nights, trying to remember why we'd fallen in love in the first place. The goldfish circled its bowl, endless loop of going nowhere.

"I'm sleeping in the guest room tonight," I said, already mourning the shape of his back against mine.

He nodded. "Okay."

Our building's fire alarm blared at 2 AM — some drunk's burnt popcorn in 4B. We met in the hallway, disoriented, and instinctively reached for each other's hands. Standing there in the orange emergency light, wearing mismatched pajamas, we looked like the same couple who'd cried at their wedding seven years ago.

"I still love you," Marcus whispered. "I just don't like who we've become."

"I know," I said. "Me too."

We went back to separate rooms. In the morning, the goldfish was dead — peaceful in its stillness, finally at rest. We buried it in a houseplant together, our fingers brushing, neither pulling away. Then Marcus packed a suitcase while I made coffee we wouldn't drink together.

"Who gets the plant?" he asked at the door.

"You take it. I'll take the memories."

He left. I bought papaya at the grocery store that afternoon, and when it turned out to be underripe, I cried for the first time in years.