This Fishbowl Life

I was driving along the beach boardwalk just as the sun was peeking out from across the ocean, misting puffs of red and orange into the great, dark blue sky. She was clutching a fishbowl in the passenger seat, and our single goldfish floated around in dull circles. The radio was humming some quiet pop song, and I rolled the windows down to catch the salty morning air.

We pulled up at a red light. It was much too early for anyone to be driving along the shoreline, but I stopped anyways. There were no pedestrians, either, except for a hobo shuffling along the sidewalk a couple of blocks ahead, carrying a sign. I pressed the car forward as the light shifted, and glanced over at his sign as we passed. It read, "Need money for peace."

The storefronts gently bounced the sunlight back and forth as I pulled into an empty parking lot marked by a few rows of logs. I turned off the engine and we silently filed out of the car. She was still clutching the fishbowl; the goldfish was motionless, its wide, giant eyes staring forever into something I didn't understand.

We took off our shoes and left them on the hood of the car. A light wind swept the ocean's secrets inland as we walked towards the water, the sand weaving between our toes. When we reached the ocean, she crouched down among the soft, lapping waves, and I rolled up my jeans so I could crouch down in the water with her. Together, we looked into the glass bowl, at the dead goldfish, floating in circles once again. She had discovered it dead this morning.

She slowly lowered the fishbowl and the water in the bowl faded into the ocean. Then the goldfish went, drifting, floating, into the world.

We stood up. Her white dress and my jeans were dripping, but I don't think we noticed. She reached for my hand, and I took it as the goldfish floated further and further out to sea.

The sun was breaking through the waves by now, its golden embrace reaching deeper into the city behind us, but we stood there, hand in hand, until the boardwalk called forth the joggers, the strollers, the tourists, the swimmers, the cyclists, the tanners, and the city was awake. Then we turned and headed back to the car, our shoes still resting on the hood.

As we put our shoes back on, she finally broke the silence. "Maybe we should have freed him earlier." She smiled feebly.

I rolled down my dried jeans and stood up to look at her. "I would have missed his big, stupid eyes too much." She bit her lower lip and chuckled. "Well, hey," I smiled, "at least he finally found his way. Most of us don't even get that."

Then we jumped into the car, drove away from the ocean and back to our homes, our jobs, our families, our friends, our supermarkets, our gyms, our theaters, and, of course, the endless, endless, swimming.