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The first night you stay, I weave a fish to remember. I sew bone through flesh, white and flaked, and think of you lying in bed, the tiny smile as I sneaked away to do my work. I curve rib and spine, and the meat takes shape beneath shaking hands. From my cabinet I choose the thinnest of bones, flexible and sharp. Bones for shaping our love, and for protecting our hearts, pliable enough to change as pressure is applied, because there is always pressure.
I name the fish Robert, because you’ll find it amusing, and cover it in scales of iridescence. The fish watches as I work, unconcerned with the life I have given it, that you have given me. It gapes with its small mouth of cartilage and stares with golden eyes. I lower it into its aquarium home, and return to bed, where you smile and ask where I’ve been, and we hold each other late into the morning.
* * *
We feed Robert together. Not with store-bought flakes or dried shrimp, but with the natural growth of affection. You write letters when we’re apart, because texting is too impersonal. You shy away as I read them, too embarrassed to watch. I linger on the words, and feel the heat from your face. In the letters you write your dreams. A tiny house with a garden, a cat named Biscuit. I ask where we will fit Robert in a tiny house, and you assure me there will always be room for Robert, because he is beautiful, and family, and his scales glow brighter every day. I smile and read the letter again. You hide your face.
* * *
Robert’s scales dim, and I know we’re having our first fight. We haven’t spoken the words yet, but the feelings are there. Malnourishing feelings that strike the heart, no matter the bones to protect it. You’re home from school, and the air is filled with talk of your studies. The fevered passion in your words makes me smile, all the while I wonder what has gone wrong. I imagine you in the arms of another woman, someone you bond with over your shared major, study with, share drinks after long days. Robert wilts, and I look for the anger in you. You keep it hidden, festering somewhere in the back of your mind. When you hold me, I feel its coolness, and lay awake with my thoughts.
* * *
The coolness enters your eyes, but you still wear the warmth of your smile. You ask what’s wrong with Robert, who has taken to hiding in his ceramic castle. He is thin, and his glow is gone. I tell you he is sick, but he will get better. I don’t tell you it’s your fault. That he is sick because of your secrets. You tell me you have exciting news, that you are going on a trip. A scholarship will pay your way to Greece to study architecture and history. I ask what I will do when you are gone, and why you are so excited to get away from me. Your eyes fill with hurt and betrayal, and then with nothing.
* * *
When you move out, I ask what went wrong. I ask what I did, and why this had to happen. You smile, but it’s small and sad, and say you don’t know. That you hope it changes someday, and we have a second chance. For all that I hope, I know it can’t happen. Robert is gone, body still within his castle, scales turned gray and opaque. You drive away, and I watch you go. Guilt turns to emptiness, just as love turned to suspicion, eating Robert’s heart from within. I scream, and cry, and fall broken to the couch.
* * *
Robert’s aquarium is empty. It’s been days, and I’ve cleaned it, removed the colored rock and sand. I carry it to a back closet, and stand in the doorway, staring at shelf upon shelf of tiny aquariums. I place it in one of the few empty spots, and lock the door.
* * *
I retrieve my bones from my desk, a fishmaker in mourning, willing to create anything to ease the pain of your loss. I weave bones strong as iron, encapsulating a tiny heart that has known too much pain. I sew protection into it, making it an impenetrable cage that can never let another in, that I will never have to watch wilt or dull or die the way I watched Robert, so closely.
Too closely. I set the bones on my desk, and look at what I've created. A fish hard and sharp with poisoned spines piercing all who come too close. Like the poison of my suspicion, the fear that drove us apart.
I throw away my collection of bones and scales and tiny hearts. I give up on making life, no matter its purpose, because I can’t watch as it dulls, or handle its eventual death. It’s been weeks, and my heart aches, whether Robert is there to tell me or not. I sit at my desk, cold.
My phone buzzes, and I look through a fog.
“Hey, it’s me. I miss you.”
My body warms, and look to the fish upon my desk, motionless, not yet finished. I push it into the wastebasket and text you back.
"I miss you, too."
* * *
Originally Published in Centropic Oracle.