The Goldfish
It is a sunny afternoon in the apartment. The sheer white linen curtains are bulging with a warm breeze against the open French windows, and windchimes, hanging on the balcony crowded with houseplants, are ringing softly with an entrancing, slightly melancholy sound.
Their wistful music complements the tranquil ambience inside the apartment. Pale, bright sunbeams dance cheerfully on the hardwood floor before the windows, and the faint sounds of traffic from the city streets beyond the neighborhood are drifting in from outside.
It is an elegant apartment, with handsomely carved wood furniture and florid Persian carpets on the polished walnut floors. A divan draped with decorative afghans occupies one side of the spacious main room, whose walls are painted a pale sky blue. Before the Turkish sofa stands a rosewood coffee table, set with a silver tray of tea in a flowery, gold-rimmed china cup and squares of pink lokum dusted with confectioners' sugar. A painted ceramic samovar stands beside the tray on a doily of lace.
The air smells of hibiscus tea and lemon furniture polish, and ever so faintly of potting soil from the freshly watered planters of fronded houseplants which adorn the room.
The centerpiece of the parlor is a pedestal table covered with a white lace tablecloth. On it sits a large glass fishbowl with a beautiful fantail goldfish inside. The bowl is furnished with a white stone castle, white pebbles, and some ornamental aquatic plants.
The bobbling, jerking movements of the fish as it swims circles around the bowl appear slightly confused, or perhaps frantic, though simultaneously graceful.
A woman is standing beside the table, gazing down into the fishbowl with concern in her lavishly painted brown eyes.
"What's wrong, my darling?" she asks the fish sympathetically. She taps the glass of the bowl gently with her shiny, glossed fingernails. "Aren't you happy?"
She sprinkles some fish flakes onto the water and takes out her phone to make a call.
"Hello?" her husband's slightly muffled voice answers.
"My fish is lonely," says the woman. "She needs a companion. I don't think she's happy all alone in the bowl. I want to go to the pet shop to get another fish for her."
"Fine," her husband replies. "We'll go tonight when I get home."
"The shop will be closed by then," says the woman. "I'll go and get it myself."
"I don't want you going out without me," her husband replies. "I'll find you a fish."
"I can go myself," the woman protests. "It's only a few blocks away, and it's a beautiful afternoon."
"No," her husband replies firmly, his voice rising slightly with a hint of irritation. "I want you to stay in the house. I'll be home later. I'll bring you a fish for Goldie." He hangs up.
The woman sets her phone down hard on the table, drawing her lips tightly and breathing sharply through her nose. She folds her arms and begins to pace circles around the blue parlor, pausing briefly at a decorative mirror on the wall to look at the reflection of her unhappy, heavily made-up face, resemblant of a sad china doll. She wipes her eyes with her hand, carelessly smearing black streaks along it, and sniffles softly.
Later, that evening, a key fumbles in the lock of the door to the apartment. The lock turns, the door opens, and the man of the house steps into the parlor, carrying a plastic bag with a fantail goldfish in it and a gold box of gourmet chocolates.
His eyes widen, and he drops the box, the fish, his jacket, and his keys to the floor.
His wife is lying facedown on the divan, her arm draped over the side. There is an empty medicine bottle lying on the coffee table.
On the pedestal table in the center of the room the goldfish lies lifeless on the lace tablecloth beside the empty bowl.
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