What We Leave Behind

The cat blinked at me from across the room, his golden eyes unimpressed by the cardboard boxes swallowing our living space. Barnaby had been my anniversary gift to Sarah three years ago—back when we still believed in permanence, back when we thought love could survive household chores and credit scores.

"You take him," Sarah said, not looking up from her sorting. She was dividing our LP collection with the ruthless efficiency of someone who'd already emotionally checked out months ago. She kept the Joni Mitchell and Fleetwood Mac. I got the Springsteen and the regret.

"You love Barnaby."

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

What I knew was that she'd chosen an apartment that explicitly didn't allow cats. What I knew was that she'd stopped wearing her wedding ring to work three months ago. What I knew was that the marriage had been gasping for air like a fish in a dwindling pond, and I'd pretended not to notice.

I walked into the kitchen to escape the weighted silence. On the counter sat the bowl of oranges I'd bought yesterday, their bright skins defiantly cheerful against the gray light filtering through dirty windows. We used to eat them in bed on Sunday mornings, watching terrible television while sticky juice ran down our wrists. I picked one up, dug my thumb into the rind until the scent sprayed out—citrus and nostalgia and something that tasted like loss.

"What about the fish?" I called back, my voice weirdly tight.

"Really, Mark?"

"Just—what happens to the fish?"

She appeared in the doorway, arms crossed. Behind her, Barnaby had begun grooming himself with elaborate indifference, like he'd already accepted his fate.

"The goldfish?" Her expression softened, just for a moment. "Take him. Maybe he'll remind you that living things need actual attention to survive."

"Was that aimed at me or at us?"

"Does it matter anymore?"

The goldfish—his name was Gerald, because we'd been young and stupid—swam in his bowl on the windowsill, orange scales flashing like tiny coins thrown into a fountain of failed wishes. He'd outlasted our couples therapy. He'd outlasted our attempts at open communication. He'd outlasted our love.

"Take him," I said. "You'll have room."

"I don't want him."

"So he dies?"

"So we both move on."

I watched Gerald pulse his gills, thinking about how fish supposedly have three-second memories. Maybe that was the real tragedy—forgetting everything before it could hurt you. Sarah had stopped remembering the good parts months ago. I'd stopped remembering to ask what was wrong.

"I loved you," I said, and it came out smaller than I intended.

"I know. I loved you too." She moved toward the door with her box of records. "That's why this is so goddamn awful."

Barnaby meowed once—sharp and demanding—like he'd finally decided to weigh in on our incompetence. I peeled the orange, section by section, while the apartment filled with cardboard ghosts and the weight of everything we were about to leave behind. The goldfish swam in circles, going nowhere, beautiful and brief and alive. Just like us.