A week with no adventures. Maybe this weekend?
Brian lapped around his tank, tail flicking like a metronome. All week he’d watched Mark hunch over a small tv-like-thing with a keyboard, fingers drumming, rain clawing the window. This weekend, Brian had decided. This weekend we will go somewhere; anywhere.
He’d rehearsed: leap into the travel jar, sit regal while Mark carried him past hedges and puddles to an new destination.
Mark shuffled past in slippers, muttering about deadlines. Brian blew bubbles against the glass, thinking I’m ready! Mark only refilled the kettle, steam fogging the room like indoor clouds.
By noon Brian’s fins drooped. Rain had stopped; a single sunbeam speared the lounge and slid across the tank, turning gravel to gold. Mark finally looked up, rubbed his eyes, smiled at Brian.
“Sorry, mate,” he said, "I've been neglecting you". He lifted the travel bowl, inviting Brian in.
Brian’s heart raced with anticipation as Mark carried him to the back door. It creaked open. Cool air spilled in, smelling of wet earth and possibility. Mark stepped outside, slippers squelching, and set the bowl on the garden table.
Brian stared: the whole sky rippled above him, clouds drifting like giant cotton balls. A robin landed, beady eye level with his own. Wind ruffled the water’s surface, rocking Brian like a boat.
Mark pulled a folding chair beside him, laptop closed. “Figured we both needed a change of scene.”
Brian fluttered, colours flashing. No pond, no dragonflies, yet the world felt vast enough to swallow him whole. He circled once, twice, then stilled, watching Mark watch the sky.
Hopefully a weekend trip will happen; if not, this memory is filling Brian with joy.