It's Okay, I Am Just Practicing

She came to the cafe every Tuesday at 4. Same table by the window, same vase with flowers that were always a little too bright for the dim room. She ordered black tea she never really drank and rested her chin on her hand and watched people.

No one noticed that she was a fish.

It wasn't always that way. In the mornings she was quite good at being a woman. She remembered keys, answered emails, said "lovely to see you" with the right amount of smile.

But around 3:47pm, something slipped.

First the scales. Just a patch on her shoulder that caught the light orange. Then the eye - wide, amber, seeing too much. By the time she reached the cafe, her head was completely fish again. Heavy, colorful, impossible to hide.

The waiter never said anything. He just placed the glass down carefully, as if he was afraid she would splash.

Today the flowers were pink and furious. She stared at them and they stared back. The human part of her wanted to be admired for how well she was sitting still, how well she was pretending the air was not so dry. The fish part just wanted water.

A child at the next table pointed.

"Mama, look."

The mother shushed him quickly. "Don't stare."

But the woman - the fish - smiled. Finally.

She leaned forward, her fish mouth opening just a little, and whispered to the child:

"It's okay. I'm just practicing."

"Practicing what?" he whispered back.

"Being out of water. So when I finally get back to the sea, I'll know how to miss it."

She left a coin under the saucer, picked up her bright, cumbersome head with both hands, and swam out the door into the street, where the afternoon was pink and black and far too airy, and absolutely hers.