6
Julia
“Ginger, I’m home!” I yell, dropping my keys in the dish by the front door.
My roommate doesn’t respond, but what else is new? I head to the pantry and grab him a treat before making my way to his tank. My feet drag with exhaustion. Having to pull back so much and the stress of the day has taken its toll on me.
After meeting with Nathanial, I ended up going back to my office to pack up the rest of my stuff. I didn’t take it out to my Jeep though. I took a few hours to look over some non-classified documents and the statement of work that Nathaniel emailed me “just in case.” I actually found a little wiggle room in their schedule. I typed up a report and decided in the morning I would talk to him about what I found as a thank-you for the amazing offer, but that ultimately, I couldn’t take the position.
At least the regret would be genuine.
“Hi, happy birthday!” I muster some excitement into my voice.
Ginger ignores me until I drop the freeze-dried prawn into his extra-large tank. He swims out and around dramatically as his dinner turns over and over, falling toward the bottom of the tank. He likes to remind me of his beauty as often as possible. The gold and orange hues of his scales flash around the tank.
“Sort of a weird day,” I tell him. “Sorry I’m home so late.”
He passes over the treat, barely deeming it worthy of his attention. He wouldn’t want me to know he’s excited about it.
Grandma Sue gave me my first betta fish on one of my last birthdays with her. She always had more confidence in my ability to keep things alive. Technically, this is Ginger the third; my betta fish haven’t lived more than four years each.
He’s the bright spot of color in the plant graveyard that is my townhouse. Pot after pot of my failed attempts to control my sickness line the counters and bookshelves of my small, pre-furnished home. I haven’t named all of them like I did Ferngully, but I don’t have the heart to throw them away.
Despite the evidence, I can’t help that I’m an optimist.Focus on what’s working.
“I am, Grandma Sue,” I say to the air. I pour myself a mug of chamomile and open my laptop. Ginger swims to the back of his tank, ignoring me and his snack.
“We’ll talk more later. You’re upset. I get that.”
Ping.
Right on cue. The message opens to an obnoxious GIF, blaring with confetti and a half-naked man.
WeepingAngel:Happy last week!!
My smile grows as I read the message. Angel and I have never met in real life and we don’t share too many personal details, but I feel like I know her better than anybody else. We’re there for each other when the rest of the world gets dark. We met in a forum for those with chronic illness and instantly clicked over our shared love of terrible puns and Doctor Who references.
I’ve taken to calling her just Angel for many reasons, the main one being that she literally managed to save my life despite a flimsy Wi-Fi connection and my constant moving. During all the nights of loneliness and pain after I lost Grandma Sue, she was there for me.
DudeWheresMyTardis:Aww, you remembered.
WeepingAngel:Of course I did, you boob!
DudeWheresMyTardis:You can’t call the person you’re supposed to be congratulating a boob. There’s a rule somewhere.
WeepingAngel:Well don’t act like one and I won’t. Actually, you’re right. That’s not fair.
DudeWheresMyTardis:*Skeptical emoji*
WeepingAngel:Boobs are amazing and multi-purposeful. It’s an insult to them.
DudeWheresMyTardis:I need new friends.
“Or any real-life friends,” I say out loud to myself. “Sorry, Ginger.” A flash of tail and he’s gone again. “That’ll cost me another frozen prawn.”
DudeWheresMyTardis:Actually, about this being my last day. Something weird happened today …
WeepingAngel:Good weird or bad weird?
