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“So you’re going?” she asks.

I think about it. Am I? Am I…really?

But she is happy. For the first time. And by first time, I mean first time in three months.

So am I going? It would make her happy. And life has been hell for the past three months, because she’s been mad and angry and depressed. Fish. Yeah, she’s been fish, that’s a good word for it.

Fish.

“Fish-o-o-o,” I sing under my breath, half-hoping she won’t hear.

“Huh?” she asks, hearing. “Were you just—“

“No. No I wasn’t.” I look at her looking at me looking at her. “I wasn’t singing the fish song.”

“Oh. Because I thought you were—“

“I wasn’t.”

“—and I thought that might mean that you were thinking—“

“But I wasn’t.” Me? Call her fish? No. Wouldn’t even think it.

“You better not be lying to me,” she says.

Fish, I think.

“Because you’ve never lied to me.”

Fish, I think.

“So are you going?”

“Yes,” I lie, thinking, No.

“And you’re not lying?”

“No,” I lie, thinking, Yes.

“Good.” She’s happy. Fish, I think.