goldfish

my co-workers are fish. they glide past me in the blue ocean mouthing bubble-greetings, bug-eyed with apprehension and with attention. i stare them all down, individually. no blinking.
the glass bowl works to my advantage, as do their 3-second memories. they are not aware. my unexpected wrist easily stirs the surface and my submerged hand scoops them from behind.
my clumsy three year old fingers transport it across the kitchen; un-learned, they separate and the fish flips itself to the floor. i am terrified by its propelling powers and abandon it on the tile. i pitter-patter down the hall screaming for my mother.