Moist. Cold. Salty. Full of plaque, too. !at is the inside of the brindlebass mouth. !e moment we’re in, we get to work, cleaning out the lobsters, tires, potato chip bags that have wedged themselves into the gums. By the time we finish, the bass has descended, and we spill out of the mouth, right in front of the school. !e bass has something in its eyes: gratitude? Indifference? Love? Apathy? I can’t tell as it swims back into the clouds. Sometimes I wonder if it actually notices when we clean its mouth, or if it just travels the same routes out of instinct. But for now, I have to head to school.
William Roman 47