On Fish

While carving into a dinner of bacon and cheese chicken kiev and penne pasta with tomato and herb sauce I looked at the fish swimming before me and pondered their thoughts. What do fish think about as they swim, all day, in lazy loops around their six by four by four inch watered life. Do they think of hunger and swim, mouths gaping, to the surface and find no food before them? Perhaps they wonder at the human cutting her chicken kiev with a knife and fork and clumsily adopting the British food eating ways of piling all of ones food upon the fork.

It is a strange custom. The British cut everything they eat and spoon their serving onto the back of the fork and lift it to their mouth. They cut their chips [fries] and their salads. It is quite an elegant method, and requires quite a deft hand-eye coordination. It is something I would like to master in my time here, although I probably will not have the chance to practice this as often as I wish I could. My diet consists of cereal, oatmeal, peanut butter on bread, pasta, spaghetti, chicken kievs, fish cakes, and chocolate. So much chocolate. And tea.

I sit there wondering about the boy who kissed me in a tender way and held my hand as we walked home, who understood my wish of wanting to sleep and left the club with me at four in the morning. I wonder what the other boy was saying in his British accent, yelling words that didn’t mean anything into my ears so that all I heard was noise and deafness. I want to watch a movie but I think about the homework I should be doing, the books I should be reading, the story[ies] I should be writing. And I wonder who took my shampoo.


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