The weekend that never happened
Brian drifted in slow circles, his gold scales catching the morning light that filtered through the living-room blinds. Outside, commuters hurried past the window. Inside, the house felt hollow; its usual bustle had been replaced by the rasp of a lingering cough.
Mark, pale and hoarse, shuffled to the aquarium with a mug of honeyed tea. âSorry, little guy,â he rasped, tapping the glass. âWeekend got away from us.â
Brianâs fins drooped. He had waited all week for hope of a weekend adventure: the travel bowl, the gentle slosh of water, the car ride or walk somewhere. Instead, the only journey had been the brief lift of his tank lid while Mark siphoned out cloudy water and poured in fresh, cool de-chlorinated replacement. A swirl of new currents had tickled Brianâs belly, but the adventure ended almost before it began.
Silver column of pearls rose from Brian's bubble machine, humming like distant traffic. Brian darted through the stream, letting the bubbles lift him toward the surface, then spiralled down again. Once, twice, three times; Brian lost count.
The flatâs radiator clanked; Mark coughed in answer. Brian hovered, gills fluttering, and watched the bedroom door close as Mark retired to his slumber to sleep off his cold. The hallway light flicked off. The house settled into silence.
Brian drifted to the glass, eyes wide, reflecting the empty room. Somewhere inside the hum of the filter he imagined the echo of car engines and wind. Adventures postponed but not forgotten.
He flicked his tail, sending a single bubble rolling upward like a promise caught in sunlight, and waited for Friday to come.