Adam would definitely be pissed by now.
Ilya gets a bit closer to the tank and looks down. “You see the starfish, Mishka? These have eyes on all the arms.”
“Really?” I ask, fascinated as I peer down to see the starfish. “That’s… a little creepy, actually.” I grin at him, though.
The starfish lifts up one of its arms. Does that mean it’s looking at me right now?
“That’s right!” the attendants says. “They have multiple eyes at the tip of each arm, which lets them look around them. But they have poor vision.”
That finally distracts the older girl, who moves over to the sea star. “Where are the eyes? What happens if they lose an arm?”
It gives me an opening to get near the rays, but I have an abrupt moment of doubt before I bring myself to put my hand in the water.
“Is it safe?” I ask Ilya.
It’s a dumb question. If it wasn’t safe, they wouldn’t let kids stick their hands in the tanks and pet them.
But Ilya doesn’t seem mad despite how obvious the answer has to be.
“Yes. But it’s better to pet from head to tail.” Ilya leans down to demonstrate. The ray doesn’t seem to mind, staying in place for the touch.
I muster up the courage to reach down and pet it, and I’m startled by how smooth it is. A swipe in the opposite direction makes it feel more like sandpaper, though, and I’m fascinated by the change.
The attendant, who’s smiling at us, explains that it feels different because of the teeth-like scales on its surface.
The idea that I’m touching something like teeth isn’t exactly comforting, but I cling to the knowledge that I’m doing this anyway.
I’m doing something that scares me, and like with Ilya, it’s proving to be worth it.
I finally withdraw my hand as the stingray darts away, giving a child a chance to step up.
My cheeks hurt from how broadly I’m grinning, and I bump against Ilya’s side. “Thank you,” I tell him.
“Thank you?” Ilya seems puzzled. “For what?”
“For…”
For being patient.
For letting me touch the stingray.
For being caring, and gentle, and treating me like I matter.
“For taking me here,” I settle on.
Ilya smiles widely. “Thank you for coming with me.” He pets my hair. “Come. There are many more fishes to look at.”
We wander through the aquarium, stopping for ages at each tank. Ilya wants to read all the signs, and sometimes he asks me what a word means. He points out some of the fish he has in aquariums at home or work, and I marvel again that he manages to take care of these creatures.
Around noon, Ilya glances at his phone. “Are you hungry? We should take a break. The cafeteria here has good seafood.” He laughs about that. “Should they serve seafood at the aquarium?”
I laugh, too. “I mean, I guess they can get fresh fish easily,” I joke, though I pause, unsure of how he might take it. He cares a lot about fish, and I eye him sidelong, wary about how he’ll react. He’d mentioned eatinggoodseafood, so he obviously eats it, but that doesn’t mean the comment will go over well.
“Maybe they serve the fish that died.” Ilya chuckles. “And our leftovers, they can go back to feed other fish.”
“Really?” I ask, unsure of whether he’s messing with me or if that’s something that would really happen.
“No, I’m kidding. If it’s like my restaurant, the uneaten food gets taken by employees or ends up in the trash.”
