There was a fishman on the subway last night. He stood there in a little puddle, his suit dripping, gawping a bit as he read his paper. It wasn’t crowded in the train so he had room to spread his newspaper wide. Nonetheless he seemed to be having a little trouble turning the pages with his fins, and I also noticed that the briefcase between his legs was getting all wet.
Emboldened for some reason, perhaps because he was so exotic, I said to him, “You’re dripping on your case.” He moved his paper aside to look down.
“Sssshit,” he said, hissing a bit, his gills flaring. He squelched as he took an open seat and put his briefcase next to him. If the car had been full I would have been angry, but it seemed like he was having a rough day. After he had rearranged himself he looked up and saw that I was still there. “Thanksssh,” he said, a bit dismissively, as if I were overstepping some boundary.
My stop came and I got out. To think that once they were the terror of the deep.