My roommate is a fish.
A preposterous statement, but true.
We’ve cohabited for almost a year in a one-bedroom apartment near the university where I work.
The fish’s home is a 5.5-gallon planted aquarium on a bookshelf across from the sofa where I often write. It’s well placed to draw my eyes from laptop computer screen. A pleasing distraction when words don’t come, a soothing escape when thoughts are jagged.
As with a pet, I must care for the fish, all just shy of 2 inches of him. But “roommate” is better here than “pet.” A fish won’t interact meaningfully. It certainly won’t cuddle or communicate except to beg for food.
We have no relationship. I know that. To the fish, I am merely a blob.
Yet there is significance in our interactions. I am responsible for this little life. When you’re alone, caring for another creature – even a fish – is a salve for loneliness. Especially when pandemic limits most other interactions.
Sometimes, I speak to him. “Good morning!” or “Ready for dinner?”
So, yes. My roommate is a fish.
