What We Keep in Bowls

The goldfish circled his bowl, thirty revolutions by her count. Sarah watched him through the rim of her wine glass, the merlot distorting his already distorted world. "He's not even yours," Marcus said, not looking up from his phone.

"It's a metaphor."

"Everything's a metaphor with you."

Sarah reached into the bowl. The water was tepid. The goldfish—Gerald, she'd named him though Marcus claimed fish didn't need names—nipped her finger. A tiny betrayal. "I'm leaving tomorrow."

The papaya sat on the counter between them, cut open to reveal its seeds like something surgical. They'd bought it together three days ago, before the fight, before the silence stretched so thin you could see through it. Before she realized she'd been forgetting things—conversations, appointments, who she used to be before becoming someone who made sure Marcus remembered his.

"Tomorrow." Marcus set down his phone. "That's sudden."

"I've been packing for weeks."

The goldfish swam to the bottom of his bowl, to the plastic castle that promised escape but delivered only the illusion of it. She'd bought it for him, or for Gerald. She couldn't remember anymore.

"What about Gerald?"

"He's not even mine."

"You named him."

"So did you."

The papaya flesh gave way under her thumb, soft and yielding. She thought about telling him—about the doctor's appointment, the word they'd used, early-onset, unlikely but possible at her age. But the words wouldn't form. Some things you kept in bowls, swimming in circles.

"Take him," Marcus said.

"I can't. The new place doesn't allow pets."

"He's a fish."

"Exactly."

Sarah stood up. The apartment was already half-empty, her boxes stacked by the door like markers on a highway. She'd forgotten what she was leaving behind, but she knew she couldn't stay. Not with the word possibility hanging over her, not with the way Marcus watched her now—like she was already gone, like she was the one swimming away from him.

"Take the papaya at least."

"It's yours."

"Marcus."

He met her eyes then, really looked at her, and she saw he understood. He wasn't staying because he wanted to; he was staying because he didn't know how to leave.

The goldfish broke the surface, gasping.

"Change his water," Sarah said, and walked out.