“I’m not naked. I’m in a swimsuit.”
Next I unzip my pants, pull them down the length of my long legs, and step out of them. This time, I’m a little more bold. When they reach the ground, I kick them his way.
He looks stunned, and as if on autopilot, he leans down and picks them up. “Oh.”
Although I’m sure all the color has been sucked right out of my skin, I refuse to be embarrassed. “I’m wearing just as much as you are,” I point out, gesturing to his body. His tall, lean body. Sure, scaly too.
He also gestures to his body, running his hands up and down his chest. “Yeah, but I’m a little different from you. Wouldn’t you say?”
I raise my shoulder. “That’s true. You’re not wearing a shirt. Are you suggesting I take mine off?”
Reader, I swear to you, his chin moves downward in a nod before he catches himself and circles off into an aggressive head shake. “No! Please. No, keep your top on.”
I smile and give a cute little scrunch of my nose. “Okay!” I say cheerily, pulling the goggles over my head. “Gimme a boost?”
At first, his weight shifts to his back foot. Is he going to run away? Maybe I’ve really taken this way too far.
But then, he steps forward. Inwardly, I smile. And maybe outwardly, I’m smirking a little. I smother the look off my face when he approaches.
He kneels down, threads his hands together in a makeshift step, and clears his throat, giving me a cue that I should step up.
Daintily, I lift my foot. My feet aren’t pedicured. Back when I modeled, I always had to keep everything so flawless and touched up. Normally, I don’t think about it, but a brief wave of anxiety washes over me, my confidence faltering just a tiny bit at the idea that he might find my feet gross the way they are.
But then, as I place my foot onto the center of his hands, his white scaly body reminds me that he’s an actual fish creature.
He’s not gonna give a fuck about my toenails.
Before any more useless worries can swirl, I hoist my weight onto his hands, grab the top of the tank, and with his help, hoist myself over the top.
And then my entire world muffles.
It isn’t like stepping into a pool where one part of my body feels the water first. Instead, it’s like a baptism. The kind where a reverend dunks you full force.
I’m submerged, and the water is just slightly cool, like the soft breath of breeze or like the first dip of summer. Cool enough to cool down the heat on my cheeks or the flush that I’ve realized has brushed across my clavicle. Warm enough to prevent a chill.
Somehow, our encounter has gotten me heated up.
I hold my breath under the water for a few seconds, my hands coming out to touch the various plants that surround me. I blink, remembering I’m wearing goggles. I press my hand against the tank wall, and there’s Mack.
Right in front of me. It’s jarring to see. From this perspective, he looks more man than fish.
I guess, in this case, I’m the fish.
What an interesting swapping of roles.
I smile under the water, my hair flowing above me like Medusa’s snakes. I wave.
He waves back. His mouth is moving, but the words are nothing but muffled noise.
Right. I’m under water.
It’s almost like I’ve forgotten.
I push upward, swimming the short distance to the top, my head breaking past the viscous surface. I pull myself up and rest my elbows on the glass edge, holding me just above the surface.
“What’d you say?” I ask, futilely wiping at the wetness from my face with the wetness from my hand. “I can’t hear you under there.”
“I said it’s easier if I do the cleaning. I can actually breathe under there.”
“You don’t need to brag about it.” I roll my eyes. “I can hold my breath for a really long time! You should time me.”
He raises a hand in a stop motion. “Absolutely not, the very, and I mean, the very last fucking thing I need is for you to drown in my tank. Especially of your own volition.”
I stick out my tongue. “You’re no fun. Look at me, I’m Mack. And I take everything way too seriously, wah, wah, wah.” Then I turn to the side of the tank wall, next to the tall table where his laptop is perched. I mimic typing over it with my hands. “Blahblahblah, this is where I type.” I accidentally nudge the keyboard, and the computer comes to life, revealing a black screen with endless lines of code running down it. Then I pause. “Hey, this is where you type, isn’t it? You’re telling me this is where you were the whole time we were talking on the Aquariumaniacs forum?”
“It’s true. How does it make you feel to know that?”
A little shiver runs through me because that voice . . . so deep and smooth.
I give him a suspicious look. “I feel like you’re trying to distract me.”
“Is it working?”
I pull the sponge out of the strap from the bottom of my bikini. This bikini is from college. That’s where all my sexy clothes are from, pretty much. It’s a string bikini with little palm trees on it. The straps have beads at the end, and they dangle at various intersections of my body. My hips, my neck. My back.
I finger one of the beads by my hip. “Nope! I’m going back under.”
I dive back down, and this time, I’m determined to get to work. I pull out my sponge, and at first, I make a show of it, scraping the sponge along the tank, but then my arms start to get tired.
