“Because you’re a pessimist.”
“I’m a realist.”
“You’re a goalie. Aren’t you guys supposed to be insane? Where’s your sense of spontaneity?”
“I left it in the car with my will to live.”
I grab his hand and pull him toward the entrance and he lets me, which is basically Zach’s love language at this point, just letting me drag him into whatever chaos I’ve decided we’re doing today.
The cat food is in the back of the store, which means we have to walk past literally everything else first, and I’m already getting distracted by a wall of squeaky toys shaped like various foods. There’s a squeaky taco. A squeaky pizza slice. A squeaky chicken that I pick up and squeeze three times before Zach gently removes it from my hand and puts it back on the hook.
“You don’t have a dog.”
“We could have a dog.”
“We’re here for cat food.”
“Right, but what if we were here for a dog?”
He puts his hand on the small of my back and steers me forward and I let him because if left to my own devices I’d be here for three hours playing with dog toys and making them squeak.
“Mackie.”
“Fine, fine, cat food, I’m focused.”
We find the food. We grab the bag. We’re walking toward the registers and I’m thinking okay, maybe I can do a normal errand like a normal person.
And then I see it.
There’s a tiny cup by the register. One of those clear, plastic cups they keep betta fish in, which has always struck me as extremely cruel, imagine living your whole life in a cup, and this one is gorgeous. Dark red body with huge fins that fan out like he’s showingoff, like he knows he’s too pretty for this plastic prison next to the dog treats and the gift cards.
I stop walking.
Zach doesn’t notice at first, he gets a few steps ahead before he turns around. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” I’m already reaching for the cup. The fish flares his fins at me. We’re having a moment.
“Mackie.”
“What?”
“You’re holding a fish.”
I look down at my hands. I am, in fact, holding a fish.
“I’m just looking at him.” I am not just looking at him. I’m already in love with him. “Isn’t he beautiful? Look at his little face.”
“He doesn’t have a face. He’s a fish.”
“He has a face to me.” I set the cup on the checkout counter next to the cat food and the cashier doesn’t even blink, which tells me this has probably happened before. “I’m getting him.”
Zach stares at the cup, then at me, then back at the cup. “Okay, so... what’s your plan here? Because I don’t have a tank at my apartment. Do you have a tank at your house?”
“Uhhh.” I did not think this through. “Guess we need a tank?”
I give him my best smile, the one that usually works, the one I’ve been deploying strategically since I was four years old and figured out that my dad would give me basically anything if I smiled at him just right.
Zach sighs, a long defeated exhale that tells me I’ve already won even though he hasn’t said yes yet.
