claustrophobia.
There is no shark.
The depth of the tank extends farther than I can see.
We sit on one of the cushion islands and listen to the polite narrator.
The bull shark, Carcharhinus leucas, also known as the bull whaler, Zambezi shark or, informally, Zambi in Africa.
Zambi, I think. Zambi zombie. Zombie. I look over at Ally and her blue skin.
“You remember the other night in the graveyard?” she asks.
“What about it?” I think I know what she’s trying to get at. The kiss.
The kiss crosses my mind before the detached finger.
“I’m sorry if I led you on.” She pauses, looks away into the deep. “It was probably the whiskey.” It sounds like she’s pretending to sound mature, like a soap opera, but it still hurts to hear.
“You didn’t mean it?” I follow her gaze and realize that far off, a dark shape moves in circles.
“No, it’s not like that. It’s just, you know. Your brother and everything—all the crazy stuff that’s going on.”
“Brian’s gone,” I say. I mean it to sound hostile.
Bull sharks tolerate fresh water, and will sometimes travel long distances up rivers. As a result, they are responsible for the majority of shark attacks on humans.
Ally does something that I don’t expect: she leans over and kisses me on the mouth. I feel her tongue. I kiss back. I can’t help but feel that this is some way to pacify me, to let me feel like I’ve won. Were we fighting?
I peek, curious to see if she’s keeping her eyes closed. In my peripheral, the shadow of the shark slides across the length of the wall. I squeeze my eyes shut.
I reach up to cradle her face with my hand but then reconsider halfway. I try my luck in her shirt. I venture with caution, first rubbing the bra-strap under her arm until finally bringing my hand around to her front. Before I have the chance to wonder if this means that we’re together, she stands up and walks out of the room. I remain on the cushion, out of breath. I glance around to see if anyone had walked in—her reason to leave—but there’s nobody here. I look to the shark tank.
The shark is gone.
I stand and move closer to the glass. I lean in on the glass, use my hands to block the peripheral. I scan the entire window. Nothing.
I look down. The shark is there, four feet beneath me.
I jump back.
It’s just floating.
Like other fish, sharks extract oxygen from seawater as it passes over their gills.
The shark rises as if lifted by an invisible string. It stops when we’re face to face. I’m reflected in its dead eyes.
It’s fake, like one of those scary robots. It has to be.
I reach out to touch the glass that separates me and the creature. Those eyes. I think of the videotape, the dog, the finger, and Brock all at once. I put my face close to get a better view.
The shark lunges.
I scream and fall back. Its black eyes roll back, replaced with frightening whites. Its jaws push forward and the teeth break off as they slam into the glass. I cower with every thud. It saw me making out with Ally. It’s angry. Jealous. Blood pours out of the shark’s snout—a dark red cloud that makes everything hard to see. Just thrashing, teeth, and blood. The pain doesn’t stop the fish from hitting the glass. A crack forms. The audio playing the woman’s voice keeps repeating responsible for the majority of shark attacks. I run the length of the wall to the door, and the shark follows me, leaving a trail of blood, like plane exhaust. When I get to the door, I look behind me and the shark is floating again, docile and nightmarish, watching me retreat with a toothy grin.
[rec 00:06:23]
Warm colors sharpen as the focus reveals an image of a boy. He sits slouched and light reflects off his glasses and sweaty face. From offscreen, a voice tells him to take off his glasses to reduce the glare.
Boy: But I won’t be able to see.
Offscreen: It doesn’t matter. Just talk.
Boy: Okay. (Takes off glasses) How is this?
Offscreen: You
There is no shark.
The depth of the tank extends farther than I can see.
We sit on one of the cushion islands and listen to the polite narrator.
The bull shark, Carcharhinus leucas, also known as the bull whaler, Zambezi shark or, informally, Zambi in Africa.
Zambi, I think. Zambi zombie. Zombie. I look over at Ally and her blue skin.
“You remember the other night in the graveyard?” she asks.
“What about it?” I think I know what she’s trying to get at. The kiss.
The kiss crosses my mind before the detached finger.
“I’m sorry if I led you on.” She pauses, looks away into the deep. “It was probably the whiskey.” It sounds like she’s pretending to sound mature, like a soap opera, but it still hurts to hear.
“You didn’t mean it?” I follow her gaze and realize that far off, a dark shape moves in circles.
“No, it’s not like that. It’s just, you know. Your brother and everything—all the crazy stuff that’s going on.”
“Brian’s gone,” I say. I mean it to sound hostile.
Bull sharks tolerate fresh water, and will sometimes travel long distances up rivers. As a result, they are responsible for the majority of shark attacks on humans.
Ally does something that I don’t expect: she leans over and kisses me on the mouth. I feel her tongue. I kiss back. I can’t help but feel that this is some way to pacify me, to let me feel like I’ve won. Were we fighting?
I peek, curious to see if she’s keeping her eyes closed. In my peripheral, the shadow of the shark slides across the length of the wall. I squeeze my eyes shut.
I reach up to cradle her face with my hand but then reconsider halfway. I try my luck in her shirt. I venture with caution, first rubbing the bra-strap under her arm until finally bringing my hand around to her front. Before I have the chance to wonder if this means that we’re together, she stands up and walks out of the room. I remain on the cushion, out of breath. I glance around to see if anyone had walked in—her reason to leave—but there’s nobody here. I look to the shark tank.
The shark is gone.
I stand and move closer to the glass. I lean in on the glass, use my hands to block the peripheral. I scan the entire window. Nothing.
I look down. The shark is there, four feet beneath me.
I jump back.
It’s just floating.
Like other fish, sharks extract oxygen from seawater as it passes over their gills.
The shark rises as if lifted by an invisible string. It stops when we’re face to face. I’m reflected in its dead eyes.
It’s fake, like one of those scary robots. It has to be.
I reach out to touch the glass that separates me and the creature. Those eyes. I think of the videotape, the dog, the finger, and Brock all at once. I put my face close to get a better view.
The shark lunges.
I scream and fall back. Its black eyes roll back, replaced with frightening whites. Its jaws push forward and the teeth break off as they slam into the glass. I cower with every thud. It saw me making out with Ally. It’s angry. Jealous. Blood pours out of the shark’s snout—a dark red cloud that makes everything hard to see. Just thrashing, teeth, and blood. The pain doesn’t stop the fish from hitting the glass. A crack forms. The audio playing the woman’s voice keeps repeating responsible for the majority of shark attacks. I run the length of the wall to the door, and the shark follows me, leaving a trail of blood, like plane exhaust. When I get to the door, I look behind me and the shark is floating again, docile and nightmarish, watching me retreat with a toothy grin.
[rec 00:06:23]
Warm colors sharpen as the focus reveals an image of a boy. He sits slouched and light reflects off his glasses and sweaty face. From offscreen, a voice tells him to take off his glasses to reduce the glare.
Boy: But I won’t be able to see.
Offscreen: It doesn’t matter. Just talk.
Boy: Okay. (Takes off glasses) How is this?
Offscreen: You
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