Los Labios De Pescado

The skeleton of her fingers press against the glass and her nerves tingle from the cold surface that houses the slow filtered water. The glasses she’d pushed into her messy blond hair slip onto the bridge of her freckled nose, and she nudges them into place with her forefinger. She can see the speckles floating in the clear blue water, the flakes of food resting between the gravel. From somewhere behind her a door swings open, and her heart beats faster. She doesn’t want to leave her place on the floor, with her face pushed to the germy surface of the fish tank. A beautiful gold fish watches her closely, and she squeezes her eyes shut quickly; her lips land atop the finger smudged glass.

A blue gloved hand grasps her bicep and yanks her up from the floor, leading her to the heavy white door. A man of Hispanic descent is seated on a waiting room chair, his eyes trailing their movement. She had noticed him watching her the whole time. A small smile curves his lips.

“Usted tienes los labios de un pescado.” He murmurs.

She isn’t sure what he said but she grins back as they drag her into the cold white room with the nosey psychiatrist and its two-way mirror.