Luscious
Is that a goldfish in my coffee pot?” Lydia asked.
“His name’s Luscious. You know fish have healing powers? Talking to them can extend your lifespan.”
Lydia looked at her husband, who lay stretched out on the carpet like a potbellied starfish. She reflected on Donald’s recent behavior: the spontaneous road trip to Mexico (aborted in Santa Clarita), the unused backpacking equipment in the garage, the consultation with a cosmetic dentist.
“How about we move him,” she suggested. “I have a mixing bowl in the dishwasher.”
“Can’t,” Donald said, eyes closed. “He just got settled in.”
So the fish stayed a centerpiece on the kitchen table. Every morning, Luscious swam in calm circles while Donald read out loud what he considered to be the more interesting parts of the newspaper. Occasionally, he would glance over the headlines and glimpse a magnified eyeball flash by through the curved glass.
Two weeks after Luscious’s arrival, Lydia’s sleep was interrupted by Donald’s snoring. She lay in bed, each relentless throat-honk buoying her frustration. She imagined a bowl of egg whites being whipped to a peak. Finally she went to the kitchen.
It started out simply enough: a snide comment about the Trescotts’ yard, a grumble about Donald’s pubic hair on her body bar. There was more to say, each remark unraveling something wound tightly inside her—she was too young for varicose veins! What happened to her dream of traveling through Africa? Why had she gotten married so young? Where was all the time she’d been counting on having to do—everything?
Luscious absorbed it all.
She fell into bed just before dawn, emptied, and awoke feeling younger than she had in years.
A familiar smell greeted her as she entered the kitchen. “Fish died,” said Donald, sipping his coffee.