The fish
It’s always the fish. One time, a time of happiness, perhaps, or hopes of a normal life together, my partner and I bought a fish, on a whim. We were eating in a cafeteria, and while waiting for our sisig to grace our table, I told him I’d visit the pet shop next door. Whereupon I laid eyes on the usual wares: fish, birds, Guinea pigs, rabbits. I remember my nephew, as always - he had wanted a rabbit in our previous home, and I was adamant to say no every time, since I would be the one to end up feeding and cleaning after it, knowing how he kept his hours. Plus I think stressed rabbits eat their young. That rabbit would have inherited all my stress and eaten its own sperm. I spot the betta in their individual tanks, and my eyes delight in their colors: one was pure deep red, maybe like the color of the most beautiful flower in Sir Pratchett’s ocean; several were cobalt blue. Then I saw what was eventually to become christened in my house as Sisig - a betta so variedly colored I don