The Boy With the Fishbowl Eyes

by Anna Carson Illustration by Katherine Fitzhugh

There is a boy with fishbowl eyes, and he is visiting me again today. He smiles at me; I meet his eyes. I imagine that there is a fish of frigid blue swimming endlessly around his vacant pupils—I am transfixed by the way the brittle lights of this drab cafe illuminate them. He laughs at my thoughtless murmur, a response to his daily inquiries—how are you, you look wonderful today, I’m happy I get to see you again. Though the sound of his joy is endlessly buoyant, I like to think his gaze is glassy, distant. His long fingers reach out and graze mine as I place his coffee on the counter. He feigns an accident, and as he takes his cup he glances at me furtively and smiles sweetly, hopefully, that I might return his gentle touch with purpose. My responding smile is not quite perfect, a little short of full and real, but he does not notice—he never does.

The boy comes to this little cafe every day, and it is a feat because our coffee is bitter and our decor is lifeless. We are hidden in the bowels of a mall in a nowhere town—there is nothing here for anyone. This boy still finds me every morning, though, and drinks the terrible coffee in the hopes that I will brush against him, skin on skin, and offer him a honey smile. Before him, I don’t think I did any of these things. I would take the small silver penknife I keep in my pocket and twirl it in my fingers, endlessly, endlessly—I would stare emptily at each man and woman that drifted in by accident, and move with mechanical precision behind my slate counter. I was nothing, smoke-like, but no longer. I imagine it is because this boy and I are one and the same. I see myself in the empty reflection of his eyes, bright and artificial as they are. I believe that he and I are two sides of a coin. Fate has brought us together, and I plan to savor it for as long as I can.

Today, the sallow morning lays waxy sunbeams across the scuffed tile floor in an attempt to bring something warm inside. Today, the boy with the fishbowl eyes lingers before me, coffee clutched in nervous fingers, untouched, and I spin my silver penknife mindlessly, watching him, waiting. Today, he tucks a mousebrown curl behind his ear and grins at me shyly. His eyes are watching me, watching me, watching me. He mumbles small nothings, nervous—we’ve been talking for a while now, I really like talking to you—and I am fascinated by the way he seems to glow brighter with every word.

“Would you be interested . . . in dinner tonight?” He stops—his fingers, which had been anxiously twitching, fall still at his sides. He blinks at me, and I imagine his eyes gleam, as if a bare white light was shining on polished glass. Fascinating.

“That sounds nice,” I say, finally. I stop spinning the penknife and slip it into my pocket. His skin burns cherry-red.

“I’ll pick you up from work tonight!” he stutters, overly loud, enthusiastically naive, and then he is racing away. His nerve fills the air behind him, a thrumming, vibrant thing. I drink it in—I watch him leave. I think he sees in me what I see in him—surely only someone of my same mind would meet me for dinner in the dark of night, unprotected, alone.

The smile I wear in his absence is cutting, but he is no longer there to see it. If he were, I like to think that he would love it all the same.

The headlights of the boy’s truck pierce through the looming darkness. The parking lot is mostly empty, as it always is, but after-hours it is even more barren than usual. I stand alone by my own car—I guess it didn’t occur to him that I didn’t need a ride.

When he pulls up beside me his smile is wide and just a bit bashful. I leave my car behind—he does not even realize it is mine. As I climb into the passenger seat, we lock eyes; I am once again convinced, as I always am. His eyes seem to stare at me sightless, looking beyond me, past me. I return his smile, and mine is a hungry grin.

“Let’s eat.”

He brings me to a candlelit picnic by the lake. The water is inky black and thick with things unseen. He has tried to be romantic, as though he can’t see the trees hanging threateningly over the blanket, or the darkness winding around the candles and bathing the grove in ominous shadows.

“I wanted to be unique,” he says with an easy laugh. “Although in hindsight you probably thought I was dragging you out here to murder you or something.”

I laugh with him.

He sits me down and pulls out a bottle of red wine, a couple sandwiches, grapes. It is basic; it is everything a picture-perfect picnic should be, with the exception of a serene meadow and a pink-yellow-purple sunset. I don’t mind, of course; I sip my wine and appreciate the way his blown-glass eyes reflect the dancing candlelight. The night grows around us. He laughs—I respond in kind. He offers me a grape—it is delicious. He tells me he has been wanting to take me out for a long time. I smile and let my hand brush his as I refill my wine glass. He says, with a stutter, that he is glad I agreed to come. I lean forward slightly to look into his eyes, one hand wrapped around my glass and the other resting on my thigh.

“I’m happy too,” I breathe, and his flushed cheeks flame at my words. He shifts forward, closer to me, a little eager, a little hungry. I am hungry too.

The wine begins to sit fuzzy on my tongue, but it does not dull the sharp taste of anticipation. Our eyes are locked—my hand drifts from my thigh to my pocket. His hands twitch with desire—my fingers gently brush my penknife, silver and jagged and deathly sharp. I lick my lips—his eyes follow the movement. He is silent, and the whisper of candle flame is all that sits between us. I am locked in a sudden, inescapable moment in time—I am trapped in his vacant gaze.

The moment breaks.

I lunge forward, my wine glass discarded and bleeding red on the picnic blanket. He meets me in the middle, and I know he is eagerly leaping for something that I will not be giving. His hand reaches up to brush my hair, but my penknife is now gleaming in the dim fire glow. He cries out and now I am on top of him, blade bloodied, his hand slashed and pressed to the blanket. I lean down, down, down, and our lips are all but pressed together.

“I love your eyes,” I whisper. The tip of my knife drops, drops, drops—it kisses the glass of his fishbowl eyes. I grin. ***

I am sitting behind the counter in silence, as I so often do. I am spinning my penknife, admiring the way it catches the light. I smile when I remember the boy, my boy, last night—I am thinking of his eyes when a girl rings the bell at the counter. I rise to take her order—her pale, blade-sharp fingers catch my eye. I smile an imperfect smile. I think to myself, This girl and I, we are one and the same.