What We Keep in Bowls

The storm outside our apartment window matched the turbulence in my chest. I watched Marcus's goldfish—named Neptune, because of course—swim endless circles in his lighted bowl, trapped and content all at once.

"You're leaving me," Marcus said, not a question. He sat on the floor with Barnaby, his elderly retriever, whose muzzle had gone the color of dirty snow. The dog rested his head on Marcus's knee, sensing what humans often ignore.

"I'm not leaving you. I'm leaving New York. The offer at the gallery in Chicago—it's everything I've worked for."

"We could have made it work. Long distance."

Lightning fractured the sky, a white scar across the darkness, illuminating his face—all sharp angles and soft eyes, the face I'd woken up to for three years. The face of my best friend, my sometime lover, my anchor.

His sister's cat, a haughty calico named Dahlia, jumped onto the windowsill and watched us with judgment. We were both still in our work clothes—me in my gallery blacks, Marcus in his suit jacket, tie already loosened. Another late night of careful avoidance.

"We could have," I said. "But we won't."

The truth was, we'd been long distance for months, even while sharing a bed. Marcus building his startup, me curating my career, ships passing in the night. We loved each other, we were good together, but good wasn't enough anymore.

"So that's it?" His voice cracked. "Just like that?"

"No. Not like that." I moved to sit beside him on the floor. Barnaby thumped his tail. "Like this: I love you. I probably always will. But I'm thirty-two, Marcus. I'm tired of waiting for my life to begin while I'm busy living someone else's."

He was silent for a long moment. Then: "You remember what we said about goldfish? That urban legend about their memory?"

"They don't actually have three-second memories. That's a myth."

"Yeah. They remember. They learn. They recognize people." He pressed his forehead to mine. "I'll remember you. Even when it hurts."

Outside, thunder finally rolled across the city.

"That's the problem," I whispered. "That's exactly the problem."