The koi fish hangs on a rusty chain. Poor thing is stuck around my neck forever, swimming beneath my five o’clock shadow. It has no meaning, but the cashier asks anyway as he hands me the cheapest bottle they have. He’s cute, great smile, so I lie and tell him it’s my spirit animal.

I had a dream last week, before I got the call. I cut my dresser in half with a scalpel, clean through. Balled-up socks oozed out like little cotton tumors. Naturally I tried to pick up a pair with my toes—two, three, ten of them—but the suckers kept rolling away.   

I scroll through a grid of headless torsos and receive a message instantly.

Looking?

Dominant and rough. That’s what his bio says. There’s a slight sag to his tanned skin, storm-colored curls covering his broad chest. He’s old enough to own a home, strong enough to raze it. A vacation in Hawaii, a golf cart selfie, a drink in both photos.

I think about our last summer together. My father, swigging and grilling. Me, cradling a jar of sea glass—shards of emerald, sapphire, and ruby, as rare as those beach days. He told me to stop collecting trash and swim. Women love swimmers. I told him I didn’t know how and besides, the glass was pretty. Sometimes I wonder about you, he muttered, and proceeded to drain the cooler dry. 

When I invite him inside, he doesn’t tell me his name and I don’t ask, only if he wants some water. He stares at my ripped tank and slips a finger into one of the holes, pulling me closer.

I don’t kiss, I whisper through whiskey breath, and to my relief he agrees. We morph into sweaty jigsaw pieces, clumsily mashing together across the sheets, trying to connect. As we switch positions, I notice he left his socks on and wonder if he dreams of his father too.

After the grunts cease, he thanks me, zips up, and walks out.

Sun-drunk flies circle a pizza box in the corner, their buzzing louder than normal. I begin Googling koi fish: how they can get sunburned, how their vibrant scales attract predators, making it harder for them to survive.  

I think about burying my father in the sand instead. It’ll cost me nothing. Everyone can dress down, swap the good stories. We can serve overcooked steak after the sermon, accompanied by potato salad seasoned with crunchy granules from the breeze. I’ll visit, just not on the weekend. 

Over time, the tide will pull him in. Slowly, tenderly. Maybe then he’ll finally see—a kaleidoscope, a shimmering tunnel, a junkyard of gems.