I didn't realize the goldfish bowls had been on my shoulders the entire time. One on each side, a fish in each bowl. The cashier at the dollar store asked if one was an angel and the other a devil. I said don't be silly. At dinner, I ate my soup slowly, careful not to lean forward and spill the fish into the broth. While brushing my teeth before bed, I felt them watching, their little olive eyes unmoving, their bodies limited by the size of their bowls. We'd become connected in some way I couldn't explain. Their pain was mine now. I plugged the sink, let the water run until it poured to the floor, tried to make my own fishbowl. Live the lived experience, so to speak. The water rose to my knees. I was starting to have second thoughts, reaching towards the plug, when the right-shoulder fish whispered through the glass, into my ear, said no, no, let it spill.


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