What We Keep in the Bowl

Margaret watches the goldfish circle its bowl, endless revolutions in six inches of water. Arthur bought it two years ago, somewhere between his first and second 'good days,' as the doctors called them before the diagnosis became a name they couldn't pronounce without stumbling.

"You're staring again," Arthur says from his chair. His hair — once the color of storm clouds, now thinning silver — catches the afternoon light. He doesn't look up from his book. He's been reading page 42 for three weeks.

"The fish," she says. "He looks lonely."

"Fish don't get lonely, Margie. That's projecting."

The dog, a golden retriever named Buster who's losing his own battle with time, thumps his tail against the floorboards. Margaret rescued him from a shelter after Arthur's first hospital stay, something warm and living to hold onto when Arthur felt like he was slipping away. Now Buster's muzzle is white, his hips stiff, and he sleeps more than he doesn't.

Outside, the neighbor's cat — a calico with appropriate contempt — watches them through the window. It's been coming to their door since the winter Arthur forgot Margaret's name for three hours. Just watched. Sometimes Margaret wonders if it's waiting for something specific. For Arthur to break completely, maybe. For the inevitable to finally arrive and make room on the windowsill.

"I'm going to the store," Margaret says, though she isn't.

"Take your time," Arthur replies, not looking up.

She drives to the pet store instead. Finds herself in front of the fish tanks. The woman behind the counter has purple streaks in her hair and looks about twenty-five, the age Margaret was when she and Arthur bought their first house, back when everything felt permanent.

"Something specific?" the woman asks.

"A companion," Margaret says. "For a goldfish."

The woman laughs. "They don't really—" She stops. Something in Margaret's face must speak to something she recognizes. "You know what? Here. This one's got personality."

Margaret drives home with a second fish in a plastic bag filled with water. When she walks in, Arthur looks up.

"You were gone a while," he says.

"I bought a friend," she says, and adds the new fish to the bowl.

They watch together as two orange shapes move through the water, sometimes circling each other, sometimes swimming apart, but always within the same small space. Arthur's hand finds hers. His grip is weaker than she remembers, but it's still there.

"Margaret," he says, like he's trying it out.

"Yes, Arthur?"

"I remember why I bought the first one."

"Why?"

"Because you said you wanted something that wouldn't leave us."

The dog sighs in his sleep. Outside, the cat finally turns away from the window. The goldfish — both of them now — continue their circles in the bowl, and Margaret thinks about how some revolutions are small, how some love is measured in inches, and how that might be enough.