Carassius Auratus

Orange, silver, blue.

A little fish darts through currents of grey and green.

Laughter trips across the water.

A smooth pebble skims its surface.

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"You won,” said a voice from across the room.

Evie looked up, one hand moving to cover the inky page in front of her. She saw the plaid shirt first, a coffee stain in the shape of a mandolin just above the cuff of the sleeve.

“Twenty thousand dollars,” he said, “One of your best.” He moved to the window, pulling back the heavy curtains. A shaft of sunlight filtered into the room, lighting up the desk where she sat. Evie blew softly, watching the specks of dust dance and whirl through the light.

“I’ve found another,” he said, breaking the silence. Evie felt something settle on her shoulder, and for a moment she wasn’t sure if it was his hand or her imagination.

“Here’s the information.” A white piece of paper with black letters striding across the page slid onto her desk.

“I don’t know what to write about,” she said softly.

“Growing pains,” he said, “Don’t let them get the best of you.”

He tapped the paper, then her shoulder, and walked out of the room.

Her head fell into her hands.

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Orange, silver, blue.

A little fish floats, belly up.

Bloated. Body rocking in the waves,

that ripple across the surface of the water.

There is silence.

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He came into the room quietly, clearing his throat, waiting for her to turn. Evie looked up. He was smiling, holding out a tray. There was a maroon mug on it, sending swirls of steam into the afternoon sunlight. Beside the mug sat a blueberry muffin, her favourite.

Evie shook her head. He frowned and set the tray down, then walked over to her. Her hands fell to her lap, and his eyes skimmed across what she had written.

“It’s good,” he said, nodding. Evie’s jaw tightened.

“I don’t want the fish to die,” she said, “But every time I write it—” Her voice fell silent, and her hands traced the edge of the desk, rubbing the corner.

“Well,” he said, “It’s better that way, people like a sad ending.”

Evie shook her head.

“That’s not the point,” she whispered. He shrugged then, and the coffee-stained sleeve retreated from view.

“I’ll be nearby if you need anything,” he said, walking back out the door.

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Evie slapped the inky notebook pages shut and slid the little black book into the top drawer of her desk. She walked down the hall to the bathroom, doused her hands in soap, and scrubbed the ink off her fingertips until her hands were raw.

“I’m going out,” she called.

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Orange, silver, blue.

Sunlight refracts,

Collides with the dark surface of the water.

Peering into its depths,

She sees nothing.

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Evie heard music, the faint yet deep swell of a cello. The shrieks of the city slowly faded away as she followed the music to the river’s edge.

A young man sat on a worn park bench. He wore a faded red bow tie and wrinkled white dress shirt. Brown hair tumbled over his forehead. His cello balanced easily against his knees, and the bow danced against the strings.

Evie leaned against the rough bark of an old oak tree a few feet away. Her eyes took in the grey buildings in the distance, piercing the dusty sky. She saw tired feet shuffling past and the occasional flash of silver dropping into the open case. She saw the golden curve of wood and the vibration of silver strings.

She closed her eyes and listened.

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Orange, silver, blue.

A dart of movement.

Scales glisten.

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He flipped the clasps of the oblong case shut and swung it over his shoulder. Evie walked up to him, and he paused. Behind them the sun was slowly drowning in the river, casting an orange glow over everything.

“Is the music ever heavy?” Evie asked quietly. Beside them weathered hands threw pieces of bread to the seagulls, and an old watch glinted silver in the light.

“Is it ever not?” he said softly.

They stood side by side, watching the sun and the old man and the birds and the dark blue water. Then he turned and walked away.

Evie stayed a moment longer, a soft smile lingering on her face.

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Orange, silver, blue.

The little fish swims away.