The Fish

 I hate the damn fish.

The fish have been a sore spot since the beginning. They’re brainless, eating, pooping things. The tank stinks, even though he cleans it, and don’t get me started on that disgusting process of sucking up fish poop. I try not to be in the house.

The fish aren’t even pretty. I’ve seen aquariums; god knows, after being dragged to dozens of fish stores, I’ve seen aquariums. Some fish boast lovely colors and flowing fins. But not his fish. Out of some perverse desire to annoy me, or possibly just out of bad taste, he picked mud-colored fish. Not a flowing fin in sight.

The fish have names – both technical names and “here fishy, fishy” names – but I haven’t paid attention. Calling a fish Sam or Bob or Precious seems to me indicative of brain damage. It’s even worse than naming a cat. The cat probably won’t come when you call it, but at least it might give you a dirty look. Fish aren’t even capable of giving dirty looks. If they were, I’d know it.

The fish aren’t totally useless, though. For years, when he pissed me off, I poured the dregs of my morning coffee into the tank. Once caffeinated, the fish are still brown and ugly, but at least they flounder around entertainingly. Sometimes they even bounce off the little bridge in their tank. After about an hour, though, they get particularly lethargic, even for fish. He’s tried in vain to diagnose this mysterious fish illness, even calling a fish pharmaceutical company to discuss “hole in the head” disease.

The fish caused the final fight this morning. He told me they’ve outgrown their tank, so he’s getting another one – a bigger one. But instead of replacing the current tank, he plans to split the fish so we’ll have not one but two stinking eyesores. At first, I was incensed. If he thought I would put up with two of the damn things, the fish weren’t the only ones with holes in their heads. We argued about it, and I threw a few things, but it was a losing battle. Since I couldn’t win, I pretended to go along with his plan, only grumbling enough for him not to get suspicious. I had a plan of my own.

The fish had to die. After he left for work, I got out an old clock radio, plugged it in next to the fish tank then held it in front of them. That’s how I know fish can’t give dirty looks. After giving them a moment to prepare, I ceremoniously dropped the radio into the tank. I even hummed taps, for atmosphere. When the radio hit the water, I was hoping for sparks, but nothing seemed to happen. Nothing, that is, until one by one the fish started to float. I almost felt bad, seeing all the floating, scaly bodies with their still mouths and cloudy eyes. Then I remembered...

I hate the damn fish.

-----

**Note - This story is fiction.  No actual fish were hurt in the writing of this story.