The Fishbowl Dream
The morning sun spills through the kitchen window in long golden ribbons, and Goldie begins his day the way he begins every day: with a loop. One smooth circle around the little castle, its plastic turrets chipped in three places from years of enthusiastic bumping. Then a second loop around the plant with its wide rubbery leaves, dyed a green so bright it almost hurts to look at. Then a third loop, just because three feels like a good number, a complete number, the kind of number that means *this is my world and I know every inch of it.*
"Morning, Castle," he bubbles, brushing his fin against the tallest turret.
The castle, being a castle, says nothing back. It never does. But Goldie likes to imagine it winking at him anyway, the way the light catches its plastic windows and makes them flash like tiny eyes.
"Morning, Plant."
The plant sways gently in the current he stirs up, and that's answer enough for Goldie. He has named every pebble on the bottom of his bowl, has decided which ones are friendly and which ones are grumpy (the grumpy ones are the dark gray ones near the filter, obviously, because the filter hums all day and who wouldn't be grumpy living next to that…