The Second Aquarium

I love you more every day, she said, and of course he agreed. Quick kiss. They were to be married in 3 months time. Her first, his second, marriage.

He had his doubts. Most of what passed for love was fluff, of course. A cozy blanket with all the durability of dryer lint. But he thought he had found a pretty good barometer of actual love and that was simple. Love was how much you could be actually, you know, be bothered. Inconvenience, the test of true love.

Not that he was by nature a reflective person. A disastrous first marriage had rendered him self-aware against his will; he was prone to see himself at moments when he would really rather not.

Honey, can you do me a favor? she said, and immediately his polite objections would begin. He would be happy to, of course—but right now he was busy. Couldn’t it wait? Was it really so necessary? Is it really so important to you, dear?

He was usually able to dodge the request, defer it, or haggle it down to something more convenient.

Compare this to the early days of their relationship when he was happy to do anything to share with her a cup of coffee. He’d cross the city to light her cigarette.

Think of when she’d gone away for the first time—a three week business trip—and she’d given him, as a token of good trust, the keys to his apartment. Use it whenever you’d like, she said. Actually, she had a favor to ask. Would he mind checking in a few times, just to make sure the place hadn’t burned down--and just to feed the fish?

He’d agreed immediately. Never mind that her house was an hour and a half from her own. He’d be missing her and would be grateful to catch the scent of her hair from her pillow.

Two freshwater tanks. Standard 15 gallon tanks full of common pet shop fish: platys, mollys, neon tetras, angelfish and tiger barbs. Nothing ambitious. Nothing that cost more than a dollar-forty-nine. He decided that when they knew each other better he’d convince her to exchange the plastic plants for real ones. Still, the fish were pretty, he decided, as he sprinkled in the food. It’s good for city-dwellers to have living things to care for. Keeps us in touch.

The first week he checked in three times. The second week was busy at work and then of course he deserved to relax and live a little. He stayed out late and drank a lot and even befriended a very charming and affectionate woman. Not that anything inappropriate had occurred, or at least no worse than what many people would do after a few too many drinks. He was sure that his fiancée would laugh if she had seen them—but of course it was better she had not seen.

The stink when he opened the door was warm and dense, like rice left in a cooker for a month, like something had gone wrong while baking bread. One tank entirely dead. He was stunned by how sorry he felt as netted out the rotting fish and flushed them in her peach-colored toilet. He ladled out most of the water with a sauce pan and spilled some on her rug. It occurred to him that he was probably doomed in love.

The tank of dead fish had been nearer the window. It had gotten too warm. A few fish had died and that had poisoned the others.

The fish in the other tank were sluggish but alive.

She’d forgive him of course. Just fish! He’d apologize abjectly and they’d laugh it off. Just 99 cent fish!

He repeated this to himself as he crouched beside the tank of survivors and studied the neon tetras. One of them was struggling, he thought. It had a definite limp.

Could fish limp?

How could it be that he’d gotten this far in his life and learned absolutely nothing?

As for her, she was too good for him. He knew that. She was so young and confident. So hopeful. She had a high opinion of the world. He argued with her, playfully, and sometimes accused her of being naïve. Privately, he hoped she’d win the argument. He wanted the world to turn out hopeful, people good.

The problem wasn’t dead fish, really. They were dead and could not be worried over.

He understood now that Hell was the second aquarium, which remained now to be tended to or slaughtered.

He would apologize, sincerely and repeatedly. That’s all he needed to do. Even if he did kill off the second tank. They were just fish, after all. She couldn’t have spent more than ten dollars. Another reason why God created the gift certificate. He’d give her one for fifty, or even a hundred, dollars. She could upgrade to piranha.

He reassured himself this way every night as he rode the train across the city for 90 minutes, a little more, to her dark apartment where he stood at the open door and sniffed the air, tip-toed across the floor to spy into the dark tank and check for signs of movement before daring to turn on the light and see that, yes, the fish were still alive.

Every night he slept in her apartment with only fish for company. Work was busy again—he often didn’t arrive until after midnight. Worse, he found himself worrying about the fish during the day. An angelfish was looking ragged. He’d only counted six neon tetras; he was sure there’d been seven before.

Why had he ever gotten involved with this woman? He could be relaxing at home. His own house was a wreck; he’d hardly been home in days.

On the day she was to arrive he’d carefully cleaned the glass, washed the plastic plants in the sink and begged the fish to please—please--survive that day at least so that she wouldn’t find one floating when she came home.

What’s one dead fish? Nothing, he thought and still he’d prayed when they at last walked into that dark room together, home from the airport where he’d picked her up, stunned to find her even more lovely than he remembered, thrilled to embrace and welcome her—and to quickly, embarrassedly, explain that he had killed her tropical fish--but only half of them.