Fishbowl

This piece was originally published by Bright Flash Literary Review.

You see it as a gilded cage but really it’s more like a fishbowl. I’m outside, tapping on the glass until you come up for air. It’s a Tuesday.

You, a goldfish, swim to the surface to lounge in a beach chair on the sand. You peer at me over your bright red sunglasses, eyebrows raised, chin pointed toward your chest. You’ve got a margarita in your left hand and screenshots in your right. You’re talking shit again.

You tell me about the fight. Can you believe punctuates our conversation and your closing statements. Men are a problem, you say, and I agree out of habit. Don’t I know it! Do I know it?

You tell me all the costs then you tell me not to settle for anyone but you do not tell me what to do instead. Instead, I get a pedicure. Instead, I feel guilty about paying extra for the 10-minute massage.

We talk until you feel better and dive back into the bowl fins first. You have resolutions to reach, apologies to attend to. I am never part of the resolution but I am always part of the fight. I take in every story, story story story story about how he makes you angry. You go home and get to heal. I just get heavy.

I stay out in the sun, my skin roasting. Pink pig on a spit. I don’t tap now; you’re preoccupied. It’s a weekend after all.

I suppose no one has it all and I have things you might want. There is an apartment with only my name on it, maybe 300 square feet. Probably 250. It looks like me. I have a little more free time than you and a lot more friends. If I didn’t have them, I might just disappear. My apartment would not notice.

All of these friends have their own fishbowls, too, so I mix some more margaritas and rotate around their shores ready to listen, ready to work. A nobleman performing an important societal duty. A barback fetching tequila from the storage closet. Frozen, on the rocks, skinny, strawberry, mango, who wants a sugar rim? I already know just how you like it.

When you found him you bragged and boasted but pretended to be bashful for the day. When he picked you we bought you a set of steak knives. They live in a drawer you already shared. Babe, can these go in the dishwasher?

Now, when you make dinner at home with him you Have Plans. When you watch a movie on your couch you are Spending Time Together. When you put your phones on silent you are Practicing Self Care. You are Busy. You have a million sweet little weekend reasons not to answer my texts.

I know the fishbowl isn’t a utopia. I know you have other things you long for. I get it. I have those too. I’d kill for a coat closet and in-unit laundry and a dark wood dining table.

The sun sets and I’m up till four, writhing in my sheets again. An earthworm digging its way out the dirt. It is not because I do not have a washing machine. It is not because I do not have a dining table. I do not start to cry when I watch a movie about people who have coat closets. None of these longings are primal. None make me wonder if there is something fundamentally wrong with me.

I don’t mean to judge I know this is the human condition but up on the shore all weekend the sun is lighting my skin on fire, the margaritas are giving me a hangover. No one can escape the human condition but there’s something to be said for not having to face it alone.

It’s Friday night again so I leave you to it. You have motivated me to swim, to get back out there. I step into the sea but I sink with stone stories in my pockets. You’ll notice on Monday.