What We Keep

The goldfish in the lobby aquarium had been swimming in circles for three years, which Marcus thought was either a metaphor for corporate life or just a really long-lived fish. He watched it now during his exit interview, HR's fluorescent lights reflecting off its orange scales like a warning he'd ignored.

"We're sad to see you go," Karen said, her voice the same professional warmth she'd used when his department was dissolved. "Especially after... everything."

Everything. The month his mother died while he was closing a merger. The divorce proceedings where the mediator actually asked who deserved the dog more—Marcus, who'd rescued the stray from a highway, or Elena, who'd paid for the chemotherapy. Marcus had let her take him. The cat, a Siamese named Impala, had chosen Elena anyway, curling around her ankles the night Marcus moved into his bachelor apartment.

He'd kept the bear though—a massive taxidermied grizzly his grandfather had shot in 1952, standing frozen on hind legs in Marcus's living room, claws forever suspended in attack. Elena had called it "macabre decor for an emotionally stunted man," which was fair. But something about its permanent ferocity comforted him now.

"Marcus?" Karen prompted. He realized she was waiting for him to sign something.

"Right," he said, scrawling his name. "Sorry. I was thinking about my dog. Not that I have him anymore. My wife—ex-wife—has him now. The cat too."

Karen's smile faltered. "I'm sure they're happy."

"Probably," Marcus said. "The dog never liked me anyway. He was always her dog. The cat was a sociopath. I think the bear is the only one who actually respected me."

"You have a... bear?"

"Mounted," Marcus said, standing. "Family heirloom. It sits in my living room and judges my life choices. It's surprisingly good at it."

He walked out past the goldfish, still swimming its endless circles, and realized he envied it. At least the fish didn't know it was going nowhere.