There. A fish. A fish, white with black-and-red shapeless blotches, swimming in a large porcelain fountain painted with blue flowers and lilies. A fish. It was a very strange fish in this library, seeming as if it somehow did not fit in. From the reddish-beige balcony spotted with black and yellow stone to the honey-wood shelves full of books of every size. Except for the fish.
At first glance it seemed like any other fish. Slender, graceful, distant, possessing that infuriating kind of attitude as if it somehow— how can you say it— looked down at you and didn’t care a penny about you, even though you were the one looking down at it. When you glance at it for the slightest half-second, when your brain processes that it is only a fish, not some interesting object, the fish doesn’t seem to notice you, making you want to look at it more. But slowly, you can’t help noticing how it peeks at you from the corner of its eyes, following you around but not following you at all. Like my fish.
“My fish” was not really my own fish. It was a fish I had found when I was very small in a neighboring pond by my grandma’s home. It was by a tiny village at the foot of mountains so tall with such tall green trees that they always looked as if they had some sort of blue veil over them. The pond was not large, about the size of a typical office or a little bigger than a large dining room table. It had thick, clumpy reeds at one end and surprisingly clear water at the other; it was shaded by an almost holy ring of trees that let just the right amount of sunlight in and just the right amount of sunlight out. The place was beautiful. Almost as if it had been blessed by a little fairy long, long ago.
I would visit that fish almost every day as long as I was there at my grandma’s, throwing a bit of rice or bread to that fish and it would jump up and eat it and then dive into the water, coming back up, splashing me and turning away, pretending that it was ignoring me though I knew it was just silently watching me. Then I would turn away from it in turn. Over time, however, we did begin to ignore each other for real; I began to find myself busy with other things and even forgot about my fish, in that pond clumpy with reeds and shaded by large oaks and willows. Until one day I went back and found the pond empty. With the reeds and trees and water. But without my little fish.
As I was thinking this, I was aware of the fish swimming right up to me, interested, as if it could read my thoughts. The fish, as I focused my attention on it, turned away splashing its tail. I laughed, fished a piece of leftover bread from my sandwich from my pocket, and tossed it to the fish. Then I walked away.
At first glance it seemed like any other fish. Slender, graceful, distant, possessing that infuriating kind of attitude as if it somehow— how can you say it— looked down at you and didn’t care a penny about you, even though you were the one looking down at it. When you glance at it for the slightest half-second, when your brain processes that it is only a fish, not some interesting object, the fish doesn’t seem to notice you, making you want to look at it more. But slowly, you can’t help noticing how it peeks at you from the corner of its eyes, following you around but not following you at all. Like my fish.
“My fish” was not really my own fish. It was a fish I had found when I was very small in a neighboring pond by my grandma’s home. It was by a tiny village at the foot of mountains so tall with such tall green trees that they always looked as if they had some sort of blue veil over them. The pond was not large, about the size of a typical office or a little bigger than a large dining room table. It had thick, clumpy reeds at one end and surprisingly clear water at the other; it was shaded by an almost holy ring of trees that let just the right amount of sunlight in and just the right amount of sunlight out. The place was beautiful. Almost as if it had been blessed by a little fairy long, long ago.
I would visit that fish almost every day as long as I was there at my grandma’s, throwing a bit of rice or bread to that fish and it would jump up and eat it and then dive into the water, coming back up, splashing me and turning away, pretending that it was ignoring me though I knew it was just silently watching me. Then I would turn away from it in turn. Over time, however, we did begin to ignore each other for real; I began to find myself busy with other things and even forgot about my fish, in that pond clumpy with reeds and shaded by large oaks and willows. Until one day I went back and found the pond empty. With the reeds and trees and water. But without my little fish.
As I was thinking this, I was aware of the fish swimming right up to me, interested, as if it could read my thoughts. The fish, as I focused my attention on it, turned away splashing its tail. I laughed, fished a piece of leftover bread from my sandwich from my pocket, and tossed it to the fish. Then I walked away.
