She wrote a poem. Something about the air being velvet. It
was funny and lovely and more than that. It was beautiful.
The rhythm. The words. Images that could change the world. Or
my view of the world at least.
"So? What do you think?" She was nervous. It was her first
I thought it was genius. Like that six-year-old on TV who
solved complex calculus equations. Except here the numbers
and symbols were emotions and feelings. And she was solving
for more than X.
My stomach churned and I had to sit down. Right there on the
kitchen floor. It was about me. But a me that I didn't know
and my brain was gasping for air and my ears were filled with
"I feel sorry for the fish."
"What fish? There aren't any fish." Her voice was different.
Not trembling but not deep and solid. She slid down the wall
and sat next to me. She was warm.
"Well, if the lake is glass..."
"It's a metaphor," she said. Straight. Like I might not know
what a metaphor is.
"Oh," I said.
"Forget it," she said, squashing my head up against the wall
as she returned to her feet. "I know it's shit."
"No, it's not shit. It's pretty good."
"Just for the record, you're the fucking lake," she yelled as
she pounded her way down the hall.
I guess that makes her the fish.