Instantly, relief rushes to the pit of my belly. Surely, he wouldn’t be joking about something if he was that something?
And despite it all, when I talk to him, I experience a little bit of joy, like a tiny pinprick of adrenaline in a sleepy fugue. Joy that I don’t really deserve. Joy that I almost never feel.
I chew on my lip but then set my fingers to type.
Jules: Sorry I’ve been away. I’ve been fighting my evil desires to transform into a fish. I’ve been repenting on a shrine of pebbles and sand. Fishkiller1234 has opened my eyes to my unholy ways.
He responds almost immediately.
Mack: So we’ve both been up to the same thing! What’re the odds?
Jules: Yes. What’re the odds of two weirdos on an aquarium forum having the same weird interests?
Mack: FishKiller has really stirred up a storm in our community. Maybe we should start a protest. Are you pro or anti fish monsters?
Jules: I just told you, I’m fighting urges myself! If there was a pill to fight off this fish desire, I’d take it. But the dark call of the sea compels me . . . beckons me . . . whispers my name.
Although I might be a copywriter, I still have some good creative chops. Nothing wrong with showing off.
Mack: Wow, I didn’t know it was that deep. Are you this serious about anything else in your life?
Mack: Or anyone, perhaps . . .
My fingers pause on the keyboard. Is he asking what I think he might be asking? Even with my perennial fears, I can’t seem to stop talking to him. I have this desire to just spill my guts. Maybe it’s the anonymity. Maybe it’s because he just seems kind. Maybe because he can’t see me.
My eyes float to the padlock on my front door. Danger. And still, I want to know more about Mack.
Jules: The only thing I’m serious about is filling up this aquarium. What about you? Will you stay a single fish forever? Just like the guy in your tank?
I type only these words, but I have so many more questions.
Mack: Nah, he and I are living the solo life.
Jules: Is it because you’re a terrifying, scaly, horrible fish creature?
There’s a pause in the messages.
Mack: Maybe. Would that scare you if I was?
I laugh a little.
Jules: Send me a picture and I’ll decide. Maybe I like to be scared.
The biggest lie I’ve ever typed in the history of my life. I hate fear, mostly because I spend so much time experiencing it. But you can’t quell curiosity forever without it rearing its ugly little inquisitive head. Plus, I think we’re flirting.
And I like when we flirt.
Even if fish monsters were real, and Mack was some kind of out-and-open fish monster, it’s infinitely better to flirt with the monsters who are out in the open than the ones who lurk behind their doors. Like Jason. Like all the other men in my life.
Mack: I have a rule about sending pictures to strangers on the internet.
Jules: So do I. Always use a ring light. How about I send one first?
Where is this boldness coming from? I guess the more you isolate yourself physically, the more you emotionally rebel. Could that be true? What would my therapist say? Dammit, I wish I hadn’t fired her.
But Mack has already messaged back.
Mack: You’re sure you want to do that?
Jules: It’s just a picture. I’m just a person like everyone else.
Mack: Right. Aren’t we all . . . ?
Mack: All right. If you feel safe, I would very much like to see a picture of you.
Jules: And you’ll send one back.
Mack: I’ll send one back.
Jules: Promise? You swear on the single, sole fish in your tank.
Mack: I swear on the single, sole fish in my tank.
Jules: Picture incoming.
My heart races. I still haven’t showered in days, brushed my teeth, changed my clothes. Shit. I can’t just look like a slob. I can’t look like my everyday, true self for this picture. Compulsions are so strange. The compulsion to send Mack a picture is so strong, though. Strong enough that I rise from my desk, unzip my hoodie, tear off my shirt and let it fall to the floor, and push down the waistband of my sweatpants and trip out of them.
I’m in the bathroom, fully naked, before I can even blink. I reach into the shower and turn the old crystal handle. Water bursts from the shower head, and for a second, the rushing noise falls over me like a soft summer blanket.
