Fishbowl by Wren Valentino

Fishbowl
Nineteen and the men are buying
me illegal drinks in a smoky pool
hall the city will shut down within
the year. I’m wearing my navy blue
airline uniform. I’m told the shade
is a color people trust. I don’t
acknowledge him until he won’t
stop. Desperate to get my
attention, I give in, sipping
from my fishbowl of a cocktail,
buzzed but still sober enough
to know better – even at that age.
Later, when I leave with him,
I see the empty child’s car seat
sitting in plain view in the back seat
of his Subaru. I see the crumbs
of graham crackers, boxes
of juice, the finger paintings tossed
aside by a working mother, hurried
to get somewhere on time, to get to
the grocery store, to get through
another long day. I don’t
question him about his life or his wife
because the answers will illuminate
my own guilt in this crime. I look
for evidence in the front seat, clues
that other fatherless boys have been in my
place before. The night soldiers
on. In a rented motel room, the military
career comes up. He tells me he was a hero
once. I ask him who he saved. He can’t
remember their names but don’t worry
because his wife is getting on a late night
flight for Baltimore to give a speech
in a carpeted hotel ballroom, waiting
for a text or a call – reassurance
that everything is fine at home, that
she’s missed. In the motel bathroom, I wash
him from my skin, knowing a passenger
is fastening her seat belt, preparing
for takeoff, going over her speech. In her mind
she is safe and fearless and wise.

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