Dinner at an Aquarium

Sinclair couldn’t help but stare at the fish.

          Their world wasn’t her fault, but she felt responsible somehow. She looked at them trapped in a block of glass, fake colors, and space rocks, going back and forth through the motions of their small lives without ever knowing those motions never seem to go anywhere.

          To be fair, Sinclair was not the one who put them there. She’d never even been to the ocean and wasn’t fond of seafood. Most of the fish she’d seen in her life were animated or documented. To think that there were real fish all along, out there in the abyss, with those ugly gills and gross scales, sucking up all the bubbles of the sea and dropping stringy poop in their own faces—oh, the thought filled her with disgust.

          But here she was—a restaurant inside an aquarium. And how cruel it was that around the dinner tables were walls of fish, forced to helplessly watch their compatriots be sliced and swallowed. It was almost surreal, except that it was far too viscous to be dreamlike. If there was a type of art attributed to madness, insanity, sadism—if such an art existed—that would be the ism of real to describe this scene. And again, Sinclair didn’t even like seafood.

          Her date was droning on about something. He didn’t realize she wasn’t making eye contact. Perhaps he thought he was talking to a fish.

          “This economy is in ruins. Better enjoy these crab legs while we still can...”

          A loud crack. Sinclair twinged—wait, are crabs fish? Does that count?

          It didn’t. Crabs were crustaceans. Now Sinclair felt stupid, which only made this date worse.

          “Economy, yeah,” she mumbled. “Do you invest?”

          Suddenly, her date’s eyes glowed. Almost like a lantern in the deep—like endless black hugging a speck of star, drifting downward upon heat and cold waves, liminal dust abounding it. It was almost like if Sinclair had stared into those eyes, she may have been lost forever. Until a voice came and began frothing.

          Turns out Sinclair’s date did, in fact, have investments. He was more than excited to reveal to her the glories of crypto markets and coins, especially crab coin. On and on he droned. Sinclair went back to staring at the fish, pretending to listen by facing her ear, and scraping her fork around her plate pretending to eat. There they were in all their different shapes and sizes, all kinds of designs and hues. Little mouths gobbling, gills swerving in and out. So totally unaware of a world outside their glass box, of these cookery horrors, of human society and capitalism and war and erotica and acid—just totally lost in a natural ineptitude, subject to whatever other forces decide, much like waves pulling seaweed and flotsam to shore.

          Truthfully, Sinclair was jealous. She wanted to live in their world. She wanted to have a vaporous mind. How great it would be to forget things five seconds after they happen. How much of a relief to be fed automatically, little crumbs falling on your head. Or the ease of a routine that involved going from one side of the tank to the other, nowhere else. No obstacles, no responsibilities, no expectations, no employment or payments or destitution.

          Where is bankruptcy in the fish world? Where is murder in there?

          Although, Sinclair conceded that fish were still murdered—by us. But you can’t blame fish for the actions of non-fish; that’d be like blaming rust for wrapping itself around metal. And, well, fish do eat each other. But it’s nothing personal, just nature. Though humans eat fish, too, and that is also nature, so, suddenly what was murder is now a necessity. Or delicacy.

          Sinclair sighed. She didn’t have an appetite left. Brandon—did it ever get mentioned that her date’s name was Brandon?—was still explaining his crypto investments to her. He figured because of her silence she didn’t know what crypto was, so now he was shoulder deep in what a blockchain is and how it functions and why it’s the future of all material interactions.

          Sinclair sighed again. Why was she even here? She looked up at the ceiling, then at the walls, down to the slick floor. What was this place? An aquarium? A building with fish in it?

          Brandon had his phone out, scrolling through graphics, trying desperately to make Sinclair understand. That her whole world was teetering on this string, this seemingly endlessly esoteric string of blocks on chains on blocks on chains. Links interlocking with links. Knots knotting in knots. Waves of water whirling into waves of water, so big and boundless, overflowing to the point of becoming an ocean. Then the waves calm, fish form, and Sinclair watches as everything goes from dark to light to dark to light—

          “Are you still there, Sinclair?” Brandon asked. “You’re not listening to me, are you?”

          No response. Sinclair was still staring at fish. Brandon ripped his bib out and threw it on his plate. “All you females are the same shallow creatures. Screw you!”

          Brandon left. Sinclair actually felt like crying. But she didn’t.

          Do fish cry? she thought to herself. How could they?

          Sinclair couldn’t understand why nobody liked her. This was the eleventh date she’d been on in the past two months, and she felt it dying, that little thing in her compelling her to try to be normal. She could have stayed in her bedroom all by herself like what she had done for the past two years. But some bolt had struck her, some inexplicable thing had compelled her to at least go out and try. It was fading, however. Possibly already gone.

          The waiter came to collect the dishes. Gave Sinclair a check. Why did he order crab legs—in this economy?! She sat back in her chair, looking around the room. All the tables were empty. All the fish had disappeared. Their glass walls now looked empty and alien. The only things that remained were neon rocks with freaky fauna. It would have been total emptiness if not for the waiter hunched over his counter, vaping.

          Sinclair didn’t want to be here. But she felt like she had no choice, like a fish trapped in a bowl. So what was the next best thing? To swim around.

          Sinclair got up and walked over to the waiter. She smiled then said, “Hey, what flavor is that?”

          He didn’t say anything at first, probably because he was surprised a customer had come up to ask him that. The rules say you don’t tap the glass, yet here she was tapping. But there was also something alluring about it—a break in routine that almost felt like a dream.

          “Uh—raspberry mint.”

          Sinclair nodded. “Mind if I get a hit? I need something that doesn’t taste like fucking fish.”

          He smirked then gave her the vape. She inhaled deep, feeling out an artificial breath through her inner gills. When she exhaled, the waiter spoke, “Sorry your date bailed on you. He seemed great.”

          “He was an asshole.”

          “To think, I was gonna take his investment advice.”

          Sinclair laughed. The waiter had a nice grin on, with very mammal-like eyes, all soft and bubbly and longing. She gave him back his vape, apologized for it.

          “Why are you apologizing?” the waiter asked.

          “I don’t know—I thought you weren’t supposed to tap on the glass.” Sinclair said.

          They both stared at each other until it got too thick, then diverted their attention to the fish, which had come out from hiding to swim around again. The waiter said it was fine, that it didn’t matter, but it did, especially to Sinclair, who finally felt like she had come up for air—like she was breathing.

          And not filtered breathing either, not like those weird fish, but a real breath in a real world, one that can never be contained in glass.