What We Keep

The apartment was quiet except for the refrigerator's hum. Sarah stood in the kitchen, holding a bag of spinach she'd bought on autopilot—David's favorite, even though David hadn't lived here in six months. She'd kept buying it weekly, a small denial she couldn't quite shake, watching the leaves rot in the crisper drawer like a slow-moving green clock marking her grief.

On the counter beside her sat the goldfish bowl. Bubbles was twelve years old, a wedding gift from her sister, somehow still alive despite David's departure and Sarah's neglect. The fish floated near the glass, its mouth opening and closing in that endless, silent scream. Sarah wondered if fish felt loneliness, or if that was just her projecting onto anything with eyes.

Mittens, their orange tabby, jumped onto the counter and batted at the bowl. The cat had chosen David immediately after the wedding, slept on his pillow, followed him room to room. After he left, she'd started sleeping on Sarah's chest instead, as if making up for lost time, as if she understood that desertion required compensation.

"You chose wrong," Sarah whispered to the cat, stroking her soft fur. Mittens purred, vibrating against Sarah's wrist.

The spinach bag crinkled in her hand. She should make herself dinner. She should eat something green and live-giving. Instead she thought about David's voice when he'd said I can't do this anymore, how he'd packed while she was at work, how he'd left only his key on the counter. The goldfish had been here. The cat had been here. Only he'd left.

Sarah dumped the spinach into the trash. She sprinkled fish food into the bowl, watched the orange flakes drift down like tiny parachutes. Mittens rubbed against her leg, purring louder now, demanding dinner.

"Okay," Sarah said. "Okay."

She opened a fresh can of cat food, the pop of the lid echoing in the quiet kitchen. There were worse things, she thought, than being chosen by a cat who knew when she was needed. Worse things than a fish who'd stayed through everything. Worse things than finally throwing out the spinach.

She sat on the kitchen floor and let Mittens eat from her hand, watching Bubbles swim in slow, endless circles, and for the first time in months, the apartment didn't feel like somewhere she was waiting to leave from anymore.