Unlike us, the fish remained calm this entire time, not initiating any disputes. I was taking care of the aquarium those days. Heat as much as worry drew me from bed very early in the morning, before Lila and Vincent woke up, and I would begin circling my own container. One day, with no forewarning, not even a sign, I found the female floating on the top of the aquarium. Her fins were ripped and one eye was out of its socket. Her appearance left little room for doubt. She was dead. The male was also injured but he was still able to move among the algae at the bottom. Without a word I went over to the open window and pulled up the metal blinds to get some fresh air. The inside patio of our apartment looked like a rat’s nest. Below, a couple of students were packing their things into a moving truck. I don’t know how long I stood there, watching their movements and their excited faces. I didn’t hear the shower or the coffeepot that Vincent had turned on. I realized he was awake when he walked in front of me, heading out the door. When he saw I was crying he came over and kissed me on the cheek.

“I’m leaving,” he said. “I’m going to be late.”

When Lila turned three months old she was accepted into the day care on rue Saint Ambroise. She’d be there from eight in the morning until four-thirty. A true liberation. For her first day we both went to drop her off. On our way back we passed by the pet shop in République. I asked Vincent if we could stop and buy another Betta.

“It would have to be another male,” he said, “I hate the idea of replacing the female so soon. Besides, it wouldn’t be a bad thing if someone taught that brute a lesson.”

“Better to get one that’s phlegmatic instead of combative,” I said. “A fish with no initiative and indifferent to everything.”