Mack sighs. His footprints aren’t leaving wet marks. And there aren’t wet marks all over the floor like last time. Instead, towels are hanging on a rack next to the tank, and there’s a towel on the ground in front of the couch.
“Now that you’re here, I suppose I should offer you a seat.” He gestures toward the white couch.
I toe off my shoes and leave them by the doorway. I’m not sure how much propriety matters in these situations, but I’m not going to track dirt inside. However, now I’m walking around in my bare feet. That feels vulnerable too.
“Thanks for the offer,” I say and sit on the couch. “Are you going to sit with me?”
Right now, he’s standing in front of me, his hands behind his back, rocking back and forth a little bit. He looks nervous. He’s got a shirt on as well as his swim trunks. He’s all dressed up, I realize. I think he’s done it for me.
“I guess that’s what a normal person would do, right?” he says, then he settles in next to me, long, muscled legs spread wide, leaning forward, with his large hands clasped in the middle.
I prop myself on the edge of the couch cushion. I’m sitting primly. Back straight. Knees together. Both hands holding coffee cups. I never sit this way at home. Who am I trying to impress? I think I’m just nervous.
Nervous by his presence.
His body.
His energy.
“You shouldn’t manspread.”
“You shouldn’t show up at people’s homes uninvited.”
I laugh a little. “Touché. I brought you coffee.” I offer the cup to him, extending my arm.
I know he doesn’t want me to get too close. I know he doesn’t want me to touch him. I can tell by how he flinches almost imperceptibly when I make a move.
“I won’t touch you. Just take it.” I wiggle the cup at him.
To my surprise, he accepts the cup and brings it to his lips, sipping gingerly. “Shit. That’s like rocket fuel.”
“So, you can drink coffee.” I take out my phone and sip my own coffee with the other hand.
I’ve written down a list of questions I want to ask him, and I don’t want to forget.
“I can drink anything I want. I just don’t . . . always want to.”
“Why are you drinking it now, then?”
He takes another sip, his gaze briefly flitting to mine. “Because you gave it to me.”
Unexpectedly, heat creeps up my cheeks. “Oh.”
A small smile plays on his lips. His lips are the same opalescent as the rest of him. But they’re also full and bowed at the top. In some ways, they are the most human-like thing about him.
“Go on, then,” he says. He holds out his hand, palm upward, then beckons his fingers.
I shift my hips back and forth. “Go on, what?”
“I know you have questions to ask. So ask them.”
I glance down at my phone screen. I’m dying to ask so many things. “You mean it?”
He shrugs, looking a little incredulous. “I think I do mean it. You’re persistent. Undeterred. What can I say? I admire it a little.”
I lick my lips. “Okay, then. I have been wondering about some things.”
“Thought you might.”
“First thing. Why do you have the tank if you can sit here next to me on the couch?”
“Why do you have a bed if you can sleep on the floor? Why do you have a chair if you can stand? I can spend quite a bit of time outside of the tank, I won’t die instantly or anything. But the tank is where I’m comfortable, where I rejuvenate. I can sit here with you on the couch, but I’d much rather be floating in the water.”
“You can breathe out here though?”
He nods. “I can. But it’s easier in there.” He gestures toward the tank. “And . . . well . . .”
“Well, what . . .” I prod, although I’m trying to be gentle. I don’t want him to go radio silent on me like he did before.
He scratches at his ear with his fingernail-less finger. The web in the valley of his fingers stretches and moves as he does. “I used to spend a lot more time outside the tank. But slowly, day by day, I spent more time inside it. I’m not sure what it is really. I guess I’m just changing. Just like everyone else. I have my preferences.”
“You mean, you didn’t start out this way? It was a slow transformation?”
He looks a little pained as he bites his lower lip, looking downward. “It’s been going on for years. And I just keep turning more and more and more.”
“More and more . . . into a fish?”
He looks up at me, his face somber, and nods.
