Fish Tank Odds

Frances An

Why is Clyde here? Clyde’s moss-green blazer and tousled brown hair appear at the bus doors. What’s Clyde doing on this bus? He’d left the Christmas party 20 minutes before I did. I was waiting at the stop for at least 15 minutes. Had he been waiting in the shadows…to see me? That’s not right. He clearly mentioned that he had a girlfriend at some point before. Maybe he left early to take a call or was using the bathroom.

‘Clyde!’ I call. He paces down the aisle, past the limited mobility seating. He doesn’t look hurried like someone who’s just run in from other business. He must’ve been waiting for a while.

He slides into the seat beside me, ‘Hey Miki.’ Don’t hey me! There must be some explanation for his appearance. I definitely remember him mentioning a girlfriend. It was in September, after a panel discussion on moral differences between conservatives and progressives. The debate was rigged to flatter the right-wing perspective; the conservative speakers were trained academics and columnists, while the progressives were fluoro-haired millennials from university socialist clubs. As Clyde and I were leaving, I asked, ‘Do you live close by?’ to try and instigate a romantic evening walk home. He answered, while stuffing his hands into his blazer pocket, ‘My girlfriend and I are renting around the city.’ Yet at events after that, I could’ve sworn he was furtively glancing at me across the lecture room, watching me converse with other men, ‘coincidentally’ running into me when everyone else had left. I might have imagined all that, like any infatuated girl would.

Yet this is real; Clyde left the party earlier than me, appeared out of nowhere and is sitting beside me on this bus now. What happened to the girlfriend? Does she even exist? He only mentioned her when we were in front of colleagues. Why make her up at all though? There could be a political reason he’s keeping his distance from me when the others are around. No, I can’t wish the girlfriend away like that. My infatuated heart could be trying to delude me by imposing a convoluted story, like a pathetic anime series that tries too hard to be profound, but steeps itself in plot holes and main characters acting like douches for no reason.

Clyde’s fingers redden as they press into the edges of his Transperth pass, ‘Do you live near the city?’

‘Yes,’ my voice is sickeningly syrupy, ‘we live near each other.’ Who is the sloppy author of this Clyde-Miki arc?! It’s like Mr Writer above thought, ‘I know! Let’s complicate Clyde and Miki’s relationship by giving Clyde a girlfriend,’ then decided to fast-track us without addressing the initial plot issue.

‘We’ve spoken about this, haven’t we?’ Yes, Clyde; you clearly said ‘My girlfriend and I are renting’ before. Maybe my ultra-conservative Asian ideas about opposite-sex etiquette are causing me to misread the situation as romantic interest. But it’s impolite for a man to skulk around waiting in the dark for a woman when he’s already got a girlfriend at home. That should apply across cultures, shouldn’t it?

‘We have.’ Even if the readers don’t care about storytelling rules, I, your character Miki Nguy, can’t just pretend Clyde’s girlfriend doesn’t exist based on the information I have! Mr Writer, you had better introduce a good reason for this development. I’m not accepting any of Clyde’s advances until you—

‘Miki?’ Clyde’s face is centimetres from mine. Micro stubble textures his chin and jawline. ‘Is something wrong?’

‘N-No, I didn’t say anything,’ I realise my fist is up, retaliating against a Mr Writer who might be hiding in the bus vents above. ‘I was just thinking about...Something my supervisor said.’

‘Is your thesis going alright?’ One of the pins on his blazer resembles the Golden Snitch from Harry Potter.

‘We’re going really well!’ We’re – that’s right! I’m married to my work. I don’t need a man who may-or-may-not be a two-timer. ‘I’ve just got two more interviews to transcribe and then it’s all writing. You’re almost done with your thesis, right?’

‘I should be ready to submit at the end of January.’ The fabric’s grid pattern breaks at the shoulder seam. If only I could lean on that shoulder to indicate interest!

‘Have you got any plans to celebrate over the summer holidays?’ Beyond the window is darkness, as though we are deep underwater.

‘Probably working on the thesis for most of it. Afterwards, we’re going to Margaret River for two days.’ We’re – this is my chance to find out if he’s referring to a girlfriend, once and for all.

‘Th-That sounds nice.’ The bus curves out of Elizabeth Quay Bus Station. The handles hanging off the bus railings swing like a row of pendulums. All I need to do is add a comment like ‘good romantic getaway spot.’ My breath becomes mist on the window. ‘I’ve…’

The outline of a crane rising from a construction zone is the Loch Ness monster. ‘Heard it’s cooler down there.’ I can’t bear to ask. What if he confirms the girlfriend’s existence? I’ll be squished against him trying to suppress my disappointment for the next 20 minutes. If I start crying, that’ll be embarrassing because 1) we’re in public and 2) I’ll expose myself as a tramp who’s been vying for another woman’s boyfriend.

‘Yeah.’ Clyde’s knee slides along the back of the chair in front of him. His other leg dangles out in the standing aisle. ‘That will be nice.’ This is nice, I think. He chose this cramped row on the bus just to be with me.

‘How did you fare during the heatwave?’ Sweaty prints appear on my clutch’s quilted surface as I steer the topic away from the maybe-existent girlfriend.

‘It was very hot.’ The bus halts at the stop beside Discount Chemist. A group of Anglo-Australian women in their forties flock like geese towards the bus, waddling in strappy stilettos and skin-tight mini-dresses. ‘Thankfully, the teaching semester is over so I can just stay home and turn on the aircon.’ I could drop a ‘Is it just you and your girlfriend at home?’ But I’m too scared to find out.

‘I’m always surprised at how active the city can be in the evening.’ I keep my face turned to the window, pretending to scan the company logos which glow like neon fish tank ornaments. Maybe he does have a girlfriend but is a jerk who’ll hit on me at the same time. One of my cousin’s patients was a conservative-looking businessman who came to see her about an STI he’d contracted at a BDSM club. It’s not a stretch to imagine Clyde, a high-achieving Masters student and leadership course coordinator, as an unfaithful bastard.

‘I think everything opens late on Thursday.’ Clyde eyes the queue forming beside the bus. ‘Looks like a lot of people are getting on.’ I doubt he’s a cheater, or at least he’d make a very stupid one; why bring up the girlfriend at all? I was gently flirting back then already. It’s rare to meet anyone under 50 who’s interested in conservative political philosophy, not to say someone only four or five years older than me like Clyde.

A group of men sporting mohawks and tattoos up to their faces are the last to board. Their pants hang halfway down their buttocks. Some of them grip onto their women like beer cans. The womens’ cleavages droop above tank tops with faded Rip Curl and Von Dutch logos. The entire bus stinks of armpits and urine when the doors shut.

‘Do you normally take the bus?’ I can’t imagine Clyde tolerating these other passengers. Their shouts are so hoarse and garbled that all I can make out is, ‘Fuck, fuck, fuck.’ I always see Clyde chatting about political philosophy with white-haired men in crisp button-ups or suits. Then again, can he imagine me hiding crappy DIY alterations under the cuff of a frill-sleeved shirt? He only ever sees me in blazers and formal thrifted dresses.

‘Bus and train.’ Could the fact he takes public transport suggest he’s single? Most men with partners drive, at least among my friends in the office. I’d hypothesised that taken men are used to picking up their girlfriends and driving during romantic road trips. Single people like me take public transport because we can’t be bothered with expenses like car insurance and registration fees. Plus, we can afford to wait for trains and buses because we don’t have anyone else’s schedules to work around. Clyde adds, ‘The train’s nice for just zoning out or reading. I can’t read on the bus.’

‘Me neither.’ Why am I still trying to deduce his relationship status when I’ve already been handed the conclusion that he has girlfriend? The stockings coating my knees make a scratchy kkksh-kkksh where the nylon rubs against itself. ‘I get too dizzy on buses.’

‘Jesus!’ A passenger with a scraggly ponytail uses one hand to toss a towel over her chest. Her thread-like hairs are ready to rip at the hairline. The other hand holds a baby. ‘Fuckin’ leech.’

‘I’m off here.’ Clyde’s arm reaches up to press the NEXT STOP button. Why couldn’t this be an intercity bus? If only we could stay underwater, just a little longer in this tank with plastic backlit ornaments. ‘See you later, Miki.’

‘Bye – have a safe walk home.’ I watch the baby’s mouth form a tight circle between splutters and cries. It does resemble a leech. Clyde sidles past other passengers, mumbling, ‘Excuse me, excuse me – thank you.’ They move aside one by one. He glances at me a final time before tapping off. Clyde’s shadow is elongated against alien-orange street lighting. The messenger bag sways back and forth beside his hip. The streetlights glimmer around him like bubbles.

The mother’s modesty cloth crumples beneath her rubber sandals as she continues breastfeeding the baby. Wiry black hairs stick out of her areolae. Everyone glances when the baby unlatches to expose the woman’s scaly nipple. Male passengers can’t help staring. There’s not much else to look at. Outside, part of the pavement is powdered and blocked off with signs that say, ‘PATH CLOSED, PEDESTRIAN ACCESS ON OTHER SIDE’.

‘Shit! Are we there already?’ The mother pulls down her shirt and hits the NEXT STOP button. Holding the baby under one arm like a football, she shouts over its wailing and into a phone lodged between her shoulder and ear. ‘Yeah, yeah, it’s fine! I’m getting off now! Yeah, yeah, just leave the drugs there! I’m literally two minutes away!’

‘Mr Writer…’ My head languishes against the seat, eyes fixed on the horizontal vents above. ‘Can’t you spare your character a hint?’ The bus doors close, muffling the mother screeching ‘Will you just shut the fuck up?!’ as she stumbles down the pavement. The air conditioner maintains a monotonous grumble. I guess that’s a no.