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 ^{(it's beta!)}

One of my fish is trying to die. Argue about sentience or memory, there is no real end; he swims to the top, throws himself at the glass, sinks back down; or, he swims to the top, just gets his mouth above, holds, sinks. Not successful, he still attempts; one of his same species jumped into the filter and found himself dead without trying. The fish may be a tetra, or maybe not, he was brought in by my brother as an Easter present and is the last of the original fish in the tank.

My girlfriend says this is not how to cope; I talk about Aaron Copeland until she walks out frustrated. She says I am getting too morbid; I care about my fish, is that wrong? One of my fish is trying to die. There are things I had planned for in my life and this is not one of them. Retirement can be planned for, as can firings, as can the loss of a loved one, but nothing as specific as a fish finding you unsuitable as a provider.

The ceiling has stars and the shades are drawn. Heat radiates from the bathroom. Smells of perfume and body wash flow; my eyes are tired and Cate's hand will not close them. The television proved altogether fruitless and it fell into garbage too quickly and now that it's gone I miss it. There is nothing beautiful about loss; even the things you thought you wanted gone are all too soon remembered. Not that this television was anything special, in fact, it sparked and almost burnt the house down and I wanted it gone and I strapped it to the roof of the car and brought it to the dump after the garbage men wouldn't take it. I came home smelling like waste and Cate said this is not how you cope and I watched my fish in lieu of the television.

The covers are too clean for my taste; detergent lingers and my legs feel stuck and I breathe deeply, focusing; the humidity breaks. Cate lingers in the doorway of the bathroom, not teasing, not erotic, not even anxious; she just lingers and stares at my stomach as it inflates with breath. I used to be clean and I used to be thin and I used to be what she wanted; I don't know now, covered in scraggly hair, putting on weight, bags under my eyes, if I am what she wants but I'd like to think I'm what she needs.

She smells like vanilla, or maybe she doesn't; I don't know these scents and it's been her lotion for so long I just think of it as her because except when she's drenched in sweat and except when she just wakes it's always how I know her. In those other times I look for her eyes and if I find that broken shade of blue that looks almost grey then I know it's her; there are times I cannot find it and I retract into myself and someone else will be holding my hand as I try and fall into sleep and in those times I wonder if I should get my own eyes checked.

And she is the first of us asleep, even before the cat that lingers at our feet; I forget sometimes that the cat is there and only in the mornings does he announce his presence. He asks for food and I provide; he rubs my ankles with his head seemingly grateful but my father told me that when a cat rubs you he's just marking you and my brother concurred and I asked my mother and she said that's really how all animals are honey, but don't bother none. So the cat rubs my ankles and I'm his; Cate's cheek lies on the small indentation just below the shoulder just next to the elbow she lays there and I'm hers. The fish lies somewhere in my mind and if we are all higher beings than all these other animals because of our brain functions I suppose that the fish is really the one in charge and all he wants to do is break the glass.

In two hours I'm still awake staring at the ceiling's stars really only specks of dry wall those spikes that seem to hang down in hotel rooms I don't know why we have that kind of ceiling here except maybe it's cheaper. In another hour I am kneeling in front of the fish tank with the bowl light on gripping a coke watching this fish try and die. I'm elated; despite what I suppose is counter to the fish's ultimate right as a being, I do not want it gone, and I'd rather he be miserable than leave me. That is wrong, I know. I am sorry.

And as the hours go by the fish retires from his efforts and I feed them all as the sun rises. In the kitchen the coffee maker set to auto turns on, the beans ground fresh over night, and I stand still mostly naked waiting for a cup. It's not even good coffee and I would never want it to be. Cate's footsteps creak the stairs and time is of no essence now and as soon as the first creak registers I feel her arms around my stomach and I turn and kiss her and the eyes I see are not the faded grey I know.

She kisses me, and what else is there to do, and the coffee is finished now, and the fish is alive, and I hope Cate comes back to me soon.