Fish and Chip Shops don’t scare me. Well, maybe a little, when all those open-mouthed marine creatures, splayed out on beds of ice, stare up at me. It’s their eyes: little lifeless baubles staring into nothing. There’s always a flutter in my throat as I picture schools of snapper swishing past me, crabs scuttling the ocean floor. I’ve ripped their tender flesh, snapped heads, sucked juice from legs and claws, but not like this. There’s something profane about posturing your kill and displaying it in refrigerated shelves. To kill and eat is one thing, but this is less like hunt and more like horror.
You ask if I’m ok.
“Look, no more hunting. Just select your catch, add some chips, a squeeze of lemon, and Holy Poseidon, what a meal!”
But no, I’m not ok. None of this is what I thought it would be. You seem smaller on land. You smell different too. And I miss the loose-limbed buoyancy of water. My arms, neck, and legs, so heavy in this leaden air that pushes down, not up. You copulate strangely too. No swirling rhythms, languid rolls: It’s all grunt, spittle, and push.
I only saved you because your bleeding corpse would have attracted sharks. But even sharks would only take a leg, an arm, and leave the rest for the ocean. Even a shark wouldn’t lay you out, stuck through with steel stakes, citing price per kilo. So, after rescuing you, my reward is to be caught in the net of this ridiculous pretence. What could I do? I could hardly turn around, dive back home and disappear, with so many people watching me. And what were you thinking, anyway? Partying on that pleasure yacht, totally inebriated, a below-average swimmer, and an above-average gigolo. You assume I was peering up at your blue-eyed gorgeousness with lust and longing, but it was the noise that made me linger. Those hideous shrieks and twangs of what you call music. A few of us hoped to shift your anchor and watch the noise drift away. Then you ruined everything.
The scent of human blood can travel currents in minutes. When you leaned over, hit your head, and plunged into the ocean we had to act quickly. Percy and my sister sped off to circumvent an attack while I grabbed you. Drag and drop. Usually that’s all there is to it. I must admit, in the aqua light streams, you looked quite beautiful. Skin, soft caramel and smooth beneath my touch as I clutched you in the crook of my arm and swam to shore.
I didn’t see your eyes until you opened them, lying stretched out on the sand. That’s why I didn’t notice the people moving towards us. I’d never seen that shade of blue before. My world, so swathed in blues and greens, azure, emeralds, cobalts every day, but I’d never seen that colour in your eyes. It dazzled me. I forgot me. And by then it was too late.
Luckily, I’d grabbed your shirt before the drop, when I noticed the crowds along the sand. We know you cover your form. Scholars argue it’s because sun burns, and air chills, while others say it’s because you are ashamed. Either way, these cloths are another shackle weighing me down.
“I found him just beyond the break, hanging on to the buoy, and hardly conscious,” I lied to the small crowd circling us. “I’m in a terrible rush so I’ll just leave him in someone’s care.”
But you grabbed my wrist. Pierced me with those blues again. In the ambulance you insisted I stay. I tried to leave but the longer I spent out of the water the harder it was to return.
You’re the only one who knows about me. For now. My scales returned in the shower. Running fingertips down the patterns on my back, my upper thighs, you breathed into my neck and spoke of love. We dived off the jetty at midnight. And it was truly bliss, reminding me why I stayed. You, smelling of salt again, your soft hands, moonlit eyes, ocean kiss, and then the swirling rhythm and languid roll of ocean coupling.
But now, this dry, too loud, too hot everyday can’t hold me. And neither will you. At night, when you lie, warm and sleeping by my side, I hear them singing each to each and know I must dive home soon before I drown.
Kate Maxwell has probably been a teacher for too long. As a result, her interests include film, wine, and sleeping. She lives in Sydney and spends her spare time dreaming about colder climates and trying to get published. Her first poetry anthology is Never Good at Maths (Interactive Publications, 2021). She is not actually a math teacher. Kate can be found at https://kateswritingplace.com/
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