This weekend my good friend Leigh got married. I went to the wedding and I came home with a fish. I didn’t catch the bouquet; I got a fish.
Really, I wasn’t even around for the bouquet toss. My shoes hurt like crazy and my fancy stretchy bridesmaid undergarments were beginning to assault me, so I’d left the reception briefly to change. When I came back my friend Richard had caught the bouquet. Bitch. Good for him.
I know this all makes it sound like the fish was some kind of spinster consolation prize, but apparently I was doing the bride a favor. “Take a fish!” she yelled as I was getting ready to leave the reception. The party was winding down and everyone was walking around drunk and barefoot. “A what?” I said. She pointed to one of the centerpieces. Each table had a glass bowl with a sunflower head in it, and each bowl had a little dark thing fluttering around in the water. I hadn’t even noticed. I took a bowl and held it between my knees as I rode home in the cab.
In the morning I figured out that I’d gotten a Betta fish. It is a pretty, deep blue color. I changed its water and set the bowl on my desk. Here it is looking at me expectantly.
For now I will call it Bootsy. I always wanted to name something Bootsy.
Don’t even get me started on how stupidly difficult it is to photograph a fish with a low-end digital camera.
I bought Bootsy some Betta pellets today. So far he/she hasn’t really gone for them, though he/she is pretty lively otherwise. I have been looking up stuff about Betta fish and how keeping them in the pretty little vases is a controversial issue and I’m still trying to figure out what to do. Mostly I keep telling Bootsy, “Don’t die.”
That’s just me, though. I’m always nervous at the beginning of relationships. Even when they make me extremely happy, and that’s all I’ll say about that. And hey, I think I like this fish, too.