Slow - Mo
The many countless strawberry mushrooms floated in a bloom on the other side of the glass, moving in the same rhythm and speed a ring of smoke might move in. Perhaps it was the transparent quality of their skin, or maybe it was the way they let the current take them where it pleased that gave them the appearance of brave aquatic spirits. The top of the body, the bell, moved in lasting waves with its many, many loyal tails following just below.
Bliss. Ease. Acceptance.
All in slow - mo.
These underwater angels resembled what I might imagine my more peaceful thoughts and assurances to look like: glow in the dark umbrellas that drift within my mind to help balance out my worries and twinges of jealousy that seem to leak from behind my eyes and nose down into my chest cavity.
I liked watching you observe our new pink acquaintances twice as much as I liked watching them though. Your hands were firm on your hips, and your hips acted as a hinge, sending your chest, shoulders, and neck forward so your head, that severely cocked to one side and then the other, was front and center of the slow motion show. Your hazel eyes moved from side to side, reading each raspberry-puree-colored animal left to right, over and over, as if their tentacles were some of the most gripping paragraphs you had ever read in the genre of crime and mystery. And I agree: there must be great crime and mystery involved when creatures move at such low speeds of contentment, and perhaps even satisfaction.
I would keep an eye on them too. Mischievous little bastards.
I wanted to switch places with the free swimming, pulsing, careless and/or carefree softies. It seemed silly to feel such jealousy towards these tiny beings that lived in a clear box of water for all paying customers to gawk at, but a lot of my feelings seem that way lately: silly. I felt much more comfort and less awe when I looked at the dwarf seahorses a few feet ahead. I think it was because I could relate to them so well.
They were these tiny little creatures no larger than my fingernails with rough looking skin full of tight edges and random points, almost as if they were one big scar. Their miniature tails were wrapped around ocean grass so tightly it seemed that if they loosened their grip, the current might take their bodies up and away into the dangerous unknown. Upon pressing our faces to the glass, it became apparent that the fish weren't so much beautiful as they were determined to hang on to the little strands growing in the sand. It was then that I wondered if you had somehow seen my resoluteness in such things I believed in like the importance of the purity of maple syrup, always choosing the color green when it was an option, and believing that love can and would conquer all, as beauty. It was then when I wondered when would you realize that I wasn't actually beautiful. When would you realize I was really just a stubborn little scar, refusing to let go of the fairytales that were buried in the pebbles of my head?
You turned to me and smiled, lowering your head so your glasses slid down your nose and there was no barrier between me and your eyes. We had spent enough time in the deep sea lab. It was time to move on to the next exhibit. You took my hand and said with eagerness:
"Let's go see the sharks!"