Eating Minnows
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We used to squat by the tub and scoop minnows from our bathwater by the dozens. Shelly liked to eat them whole, but I was strictly catch and release. She called it a cruel kindness to submit them to such treatment.
"You're inflicting something much worse than digestion on these poor fish, Charlie."
"And what might that be?"
"Hope."
Years later, when her boobs had grown in and I had learned how to tango, she asked if I remembered that day.
Of course I remembered. Who can forget an epiphany? "You ate those fish and you told me how cruel it was to let them go."
"Was I wrong, Charlie? Did you do them any favors by releasing them?"
The question made me uncomfortable. I recalled the minnows' struggles as the soap suds overcame them. Gills flapping, missile bodies rolling over, ballast lost, spines arching. I felt their agony as they called out in that silent voice: It's your fault, Charlie. Death is not painful, but hope? That hurts more than anything.
"Did you see those fish I ate die, Charlie, or do you only want to imagine they did? For all you know they're still alive inside me like Jonah and the whale in reverse." She pressed her hands to her stomach. I imagined trout swimming contentedly inside her, rainbows on their sides.
"It's been years," I said. "Do fish even live this long in the wild?"
She opened her mouth, tilted her chin, and sank onto her knees. "You tell me, Charlie." Breath oozed around me, dank and heavy.
Heart pounding, I leaned close. If even one was alive, it would mean something survived our childhood.
"You're inflicting something much worse than digestion on these poor fish, Charlie."
"And what might that be?"
"Hope."
Years later, when her boobs had grown in and I had learned how to tango, she asked if I remembered that day.
Of course I remembered. Who can forget an epiphany? "You ate those fish and you told me how cruel it was to let them go."
"Was I wrong, Charlie? Did you do them any favors by releasing them?"
The question made me uncomfortable. I recalled the minnows' struggles as the soap suds overcame them. Gills flapping, missile bodies rolling over, ballast lost, spines arching. I felt their agony as they called out in that silent voice: It's your fault, Charlie. Death is not painful, but hope? That hurts more than anything.
"Did you see those fish I ate die, Charlie, or do you only want to imagine they did? For all you know they're still alive inside me like Jonah and the whale in reverse." She pressed her hands to her stomach. I imagined trout swimming contentedly inside her, rainbows on their sides.
"It's been years," I said. "Do fish even live this long in the wild?"
She opened her mouth, tilted her chin, and sank onto her knees. "You tell me, Charlie." Breath oozed around me, dank and heavy.
Heart pounding, I leaned close. If even one was alive, it would mean something survived our childhood.