Glass

In the air dark and shimmering with cobalt light - though next to me, you felt far. We were both quiet but I knew what you were thinking. We moved slowly through the crowd of people mostly in awe, sometimes arguing with each other about the actual name of a fish - from window to window, looking into another world. I thought about reaching for your hand, but thought better of it.

Your thick hair, falling in coarse curls, was almost dark gray in this light. Your eyes dimmed, there was a certain expression on your face, a certain expression I’ve always loved. Like you could read everything and you already knew. What I was thinking too.

But we don’t speak, in the darkness.

We moved to a porthole; pretenses of a ruined ship littered the blue space. Your eyes alight with the same eerie blue-green. I looked at the fish; I looked back at you.

“What do you think the fish think of us?” I asked you.

You smiled, corners of your eyes crinkling. Nodding slightly - I know that’s when I’ve asked you a good question. “I don’t know, there could really be near infinite possibilities here. There was a philosopher who explored the question of whether fish are aware of boundaries such as these,” you tapped on the glass, a gentle knuckle, “and the conclusion was essentially - no. They are not aware or at least it does not matter to them that they are in the glass, so perhaps it also does not matter to them that they are being observed. But I’m not sure how much I agree with the conclusion.”

I cocked my head. “Why don’t you agree?”

You laughed, a soft, short sound. “His argument is essentially based on the idea that how one lives is irrevocably tied to where one lives. All that matters to the fish are where they can navigate, but -”

“Where they can navigate is delimited by the boundaries of their navigation.”

You turned and looked at me, a smile still playing at your lips. “Yes, precisely.”

I looked away from your lips. “So, maybe they’re not thinking of us; maybe they’re always thinking of us; maybe they’re thinking of everything in between. Still, you’re not answering my question.”

“What might they be thinking of us?” I could feel your gaze on me - a sharpness to it. The air tightened - my lungs felt shallow. My throat, dry and suddenly useless.

I cleared it once, twice, then shrugged and turned away. “Could be anything,” I tossed the phrase, airy-toned over my shoulder. My feet moved of their own volition, drawn to the indigo blue of a crystal ball-like exhibit. I knew, rather than heard, your steps, muffled by the carpet, never too far behind.

I rested my elbows on the handrail surrounding the glass ball - soon you joined me too, settling into the worn leather. It was quiet; the crowd murmured as feet shifted.

“You know, we’re never going to know.” You spoke, your voice barely a whisper. Ever since I met you, I’ve always loved your voice; how musical it was, sonorous in the heat of an impassioned speech, gentle like a sigh now.

I sighed. “I know that.”

“But it doesn’t mean we’re going to stop trying.”

“Yeah.”

I looked at the fish; I looked back at you. Only to find you already looking. It was the first time I’ve looked at you in a long while, really looked at you; the soft gleam of your eyes, their slightly downward turn, that sharpness, nevertheless. It was not the first time I wondered what you thought of me.

I smiled. You looked.