What We Leave Behind

The goldfish circled his bowl, orange scales flashing in the fluorescent office light. Elena watched him, a third martini heavy in her hand, while Richard packed his things into the cardboard box. Their affair had ended before lunch, officially, though the dying embers had smoldered for months.

"You can keep the sphinx," Richard said, gesturing to the paperweight on her desk—a ridiculous thing she'd bought in Egypt during that week they'd both pretended to be single. "It suits you."

"It was a gift," she said, and the pettiness of her own voice surprised her. "You don't take back gifts."

That morning, she'd fought with Marcus over the dog. Buster was technically his, a rescue from before they'd married, but the old beagle had slept at Elena's feet for seven years. Marcus, fresh from his own apartment, his own new life, had picked him up while Elena was at work. No discussion. Just a text: *Got the dog. You can visit.*

Now she sat in her office after hours, nursing her drink and watching Richard walk out the door. His retirement was effective immediately—sixty-two, wealthy enough, and finally ready to leave the wife who'd made him miserable for three decades. Elena would miss him. She wouldn't miss herself around him.

The goldfish, whose name was Steve, swam to the surface and opened his mouth.

"Same," Elena said.

She thought of the spinach in her crisper drawer at home, bought on Sunday with plans to cook healthy dinners, eat better, be better. Now it was wilting, slimy, inevitable. Everything rotted if you left it alone long enough. Even love. Especially love.

Her phone buzzed. Marcus, probably wanting to discuss the division of assets. Or maybe returning the dog. She didn't answer.

Elena lifted her glass to Steve, who had returned to his endless laps around his tiny kingdom. Tomorrow she'd buy fresh spinach. Tomorrow she'd file the papers. Tonight she'd drink until Richard was a memory and the sphinx was just a paperweight again.

She caught her reflection in the glass—mascara running, hair falling from its bun. A good woman making terrible choices, or maybe a terrible woman finally making honest ones. The goldfish swam on, indifferent, beautiful in his persistence. He didn't know he was trapped. Maybe that was the gift of it.