Cold Fish

                Emotion. An old sentiment. A good memory. A human feeling. Another refreshing draught, another hour perched on a high stool, pointed elbows propped up on the bar. In his prime, he stepped out for a smoke and a breath of cool, fresh air, pointed his ember to the west, and cast the burnt-out stump in the same direction, towards the river.

                His shoulders shook, his fingers curled into his palms, his back tightened up as the chill breeze crept up his sleeves, slid down his collar, rapped at his gut’s chamber door. The cold offended his warmth, the same way his light offended the dark—an unwelcome guest.

                He turned his back on the cold and the dark and pushed back inside, wiping the steam from his glasses, stretching and curling his fingers, inviting the warmth back in. “Promise me,” the jealous warmth begged, “that you won’t let the cold in again.” He promised.

                The withered glass tulip in front of him now bloomed once again, refilled with a warmly glowing amber, flickering in the soft light of a single votive on the polished ebony counter.A stream of effervescence burst from deep inside the tulip’s heart, breathing life into the glass, spiraling out to the very edge—tiny explosions congregating around the rim, working up to a fervor of soft white foam which broke down and fell back into the deep red-and-golden pool, an almost perpetual cycle. A good memory.

                A small hand and a small voice broke the silence on his right, piping up—“Can I join you for a drink, Chuck?” while pulling a stool back from the bar. Two squeaks mingled into one ugly scrape on the silence’s cheek. Her face was too familiar. A face that seemed to smile from the bottom lip only. She wore a bright white shirt—she looked like a snow-flake. He tugged at his black scarf, tightened it around his neck. “I remember,” she went on squeaking “the last time we saw each other—“

                “Oh, do you?” he broke in, “Do you remember?”

                “Yes. Yes I do. I remember—“

                “Good. Good that you remember.”

                “Do you mind if I join you?”

                He thought of a fish, remembered the way he felt at their last meeting, felt the same way. Last time he’d been hooked, reeled in, and thrown back. He couldn’t eat for a week after that. His lips still ached. The worm now squirmed in front of his nose again. “Let me think about it,” he grumbled and stood up, pointing himself toward the bathroom. He twisted the warm brass knob and pushed open the door to the dark closet, flicking on the light. The darkness winced. He didn’t want to be seen thinking.

                Last time, she had poured him a cup of coffee. Dark, and warm. The perfect drink. Comfort.

                A good memory.

                Bitter.

                Thrown back into the cold water after that. A cold fish. He had wanted to be gutted, fileted, seared with olive oil and lemon—and eaten. Warm. Instead, he splashed back into the cold water. Maybe he wasn’t big enough.

                He finished thinking, flicked the light off again. The darkness sighed with relief. He walked back to his stool, done thinking, to where she still sat on his glass’s right. He reclaimed his seat silently.

                “Did you think about it?” she asked.

                “Yes. I thought about it. I’m done thinking now.”

                “And?”

                “No.”

                He curled his fingers around the votive, covering the soft light, heating his cold hands on the tiny flame. The light faded out, the wick burnt down into its own pool of wax, and he sighed with relief. Dark. And warm. A human feeling. A good memory.