mermaid

When I was little, I would splash in the bath and pretend that I was a mermaid. That I was the only mermaid. I was a beautiful mermaid with hair that was brilliant and yellow, like spun gold and it swirled around my shoulders as I swam. Fanned out when I came to a sudden halt. I was the last mermaid on earth and I was lovely and well cared for and lonely. I imagined that the bottom of my white ceramic tub was actually glass. The glass through which the tourists would view me. I would hold my breath and sink to the bottom. Blowing bubbles in a tiny O in my lips... making patterns, sticking them to the glass. I imagined a man reaching up to the glass and tapping twice with his burly finger. Immediately my owner was there, to escort him out. As the sign says, sir, no tapping on the glass. I'm sorry, you'll have to leave now. There is a mild scuffle between the two. The man straightens the tuxedo jacket that he is wearing and flings his shoulders back, broad, in outrage. He'd paid the $500 admission fee only minutes earlier and now he was being locked out, forever banished, for tapping the glass.

The other guests in the grand aquarium hall suddenly stepped very delicately, careful not to come near the glass for fear of expulsion. They sipped their glittering champagne and nibbled tiny foods balanced on tiny crackers. The lady in the black sequined gown stepped forward and used her golden monacle to steal a closer look at me, the wonder that was me. But I was too sad to care. I would swim to the far side of the tank, where I would blow bubbles underwater for myself and dream of friendship.