She wrote a poem. Something about the air being velvet. It was funny and lovely and more than that. It was beautiful. The rhythm. The words. Images that could change the world. Or my world at least.

“So? What do you think?” She was nervous. It was her first poem.

I thought it was genius. Like that six-year-old on TV who solved complex calculus equations. Except here the numbers and symbols were emotions and feelings. And she was solving for more than X.

My stomach churned and I sat down. Right there on the kitchen floor. It was about me. But a me that I didn't know and my brain was gasping for air and my ears were filled with honey.

“I feel sorry for the fish.”

“What fish? There aren't any fish.” Her voice was different. Not trembling, exactly, but not deep and solid either. She slid down the wall and sat next to me. She was warm.

“Well, if the lake is glass...”

“It's a metaphor,” she said. Straight. Like I might not know what a metaphor is.

“Oh,” I said.

“Forget it,” she said, squashing my head up against the wall as she got up. “I know it's shit.”

“No, it's not shit. It's pretty good.”

“Just for the record, you're the fucking lake,” she yelled as she pounded her way down the hall.

No kidding.

I guess that makes her the fish.