Gary looks up when the door chimes and slides open. He recognizes the coat - a long black affair tightly cinched at the waist - though the woman's hair is drawn up into a messy bun today. Last week it had been loose and slightly damp, as if she'd been caught in the rain. The smell of her shampoo (maybe she had just showered) had flustered him. She is as small and dark as he is large and ruddy. When she had turned to study the tanks that day, he had been able to bend over her head without being noticed. Sandlewood and vanilla. It had lingered for a while after she left, almost covering the weedy tang of the fish station.
He busies himself with arranging plastic bags and rubber bands on the counter, watching as the woman explains herself to the assistant manager who holds a small brown paper bag she's handed him with thumb and forefinger. Gary tries to remember which fish she had chosen on the previous visit. It had taken her nearly an hour. She wanted to know where the fish were hatched, how compatible one species was with another, hardiness, growth potential, the ideal tank environment. He was used to such questions and answered them with the aplomb of a marine biologist, though he is little more than a glorified pool cleaner, waging a constant battle against marine scum in the fifty-four tanks he monitors. What he does remember is that the top lip of her ear, behind which she has smoothed her dark hair, is pierced with a tiny silver hoop.
As the woman studies her receipt and waits for the assistant manager to take a phone call at the customer service desk, Gary pinches out a few pellets for the Beta tank, smiling lovingly into the swarm of blue and red fish that flash toward the food, just in case she looks over. And when he raises his head again, he catches her eye. She gives him a small, tight smile and looks back down at her hands. A Blueface Angel, he remembers. She had finally decided when he had told her that Angels liked their space, that they flourished in cool dark places. They were cave fish. He'd read that in one of the brochures on the huge literature rack that no one bothers to reference.
As he pours wormy flakes into the huge goldfish tank, he wonders if she'd brought a water sample as mandated by the fish return policy. She'd read it closely, asking questions about the "properly established system," that is required to ensure the 15 day guarantee. He looks up again to see her browsing through the pet-themed greeting cards near the cashier stands, still waiting for the assistant manager to finish on the phone. She doesn't seem like the pet-owning type. In rare cases, a fish technician is sent to the customer's home to test the PH levels of the home tank. Gary smooths his red smock and straightens his employee badge, ready to volunteer for this mission if necessary. He'd follow her to her apartment in one of the high rises built along the river. In the elevator, she'd admit that she may not have correctly assembled the filter, and give him a glassy wink. She would close the door behind him and stand with her back against the frame, unbelting her black coat slowly, slowly. Before anything else, he would pull the clip out of her hair, letting if fall softly down onto her shoulders. Sandlewood. Vanilla. Grey eyes under a dark fringe. Her ears are as soft and delicate as they look, veined with a pulsing network of bluish vessels, covered in pale down. The little silver hoop, hooked through the paper-thin cartilage is cool, tasting sharp and distinct in his mouth against the warm leather of her lobe. With his teeth, he releases the unseen clasp and lets is slide smoothly from the tiny hole and onto his tongue.
When he looks up again, she is gone.
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