Fish
By Roseanne McCullough
The pool curved through the earth, encircled by stone. It was still, some leaves combed the edges, and it was green instead of blue. I stared at him across this pool, that looked more like a pond- one with no fish and a wooden hut, which stood on stilts at the far end. If we were in a country closer to home, I would have assumed the hut was Santa’s, that frost would soon flirt with the windowpanes, that a well-mannered tree, with bobble earrings and tinsel scarves, would perch in the corner, and that elves, stripy and pointy eared, would welcome children inside. But we were adults, the air was humid, the trees moist and undefined, and the hut stood still, its only decoration a bucket and pair of worn-down sandals on the balcony. Standing there, we were almost alone- from the main house, I could smell cigarette smoke and hear a group playing pool.
He tried to make eye contact with me, but I was staring at the water below. It seemed wrong that little fishes weren’t flickering inside the pool, making the place their own, but I suppose some guests might have complained. It’s different cooing at something through a fishbowl than feeling its scales grace your skin. I suppose I understood and so I too lifted my head and met his eyes.
We walked up the small wooden steps. Our door was glass, panelled and its handle was smooth, as if to say don’t worry, you will be comfortable here. Inside were wooden beams, purple floor cushions, and bamboo blinds. The lighting was soft and a rose-gold curtain could be pulled in front of the glass panels of the door. Around the back of the room, down some pebbled stone steps was a bathroom. The room stayed still as I watched him unpack his t-shirts, his hiking trousers and black water bottle. I remembered him offering me some water in the airport months ago. I had said I was thirsty after the bus journey, check-in and the long security queue. But as I stared at the wide rim of the water bottle, the lime he had popped in for flavour, it seemed a weighted question. We didn’t know each other, and his lips had been there.
He sat in the water, his arms stretched either side over the stone wall as if he was about to smile for a photograph with friends. The water had slicked his hair back, heightening his facial features. I watched the jawline and cheekbones as he moved, the lips sit as he thought. My swimsuit was a maze of colour and strings, and as I stood on the stone wall, deciding to tightrope my way along it to the centre rather than wade in, I questioned my choice. Of him and the swimsuit.
I pretended not to notice his eyes glazing my legs with thoughts- touching them, kissing my knees, wrapping them around his torso. I flirted with him, pointing my feet like a ballerina, as I reached the farthest point from him on the stone wall. I could have cannon balled and made him laugh, but we both knew I was going to dive, to let those legs glide in mid-air for a split second before being stroked by that green water. Now my hair was slicked back too and I wondered if my facial features were more defined like his. I swam around in circles, bobbing my head up and down beneath the surface, before holding a ball of water in my mouth. His grin said don’t you dare. My eyes said too late. As he groaned and splashed water back in my face, I wondered what we were doing in such a short space of time. I thought of the day before when we were walking around the village. We were dripping in sweat, gagging for something like the pool we were in now. As we rolled up our sleeves, glugged water and applied suncream hopelessly to salty skin, we were not thinking of each other or our bodies or how we looked. We sat panting on the bench, the heat making the water lilies, intricate outdoor panels and mosaic columns of blue, gold and red, irritating and a burden. We stared at the royal expansive pool below us, and the Koi fish that meandered over each other like babies in a play pen. He told me a fact, that Koi fish grow to fit the size of their enclosure, so that’s why some are small and some look surprisingly heavy. I considered this as a tourist threw some bronze change into the water.
Prancing and playing in the pool, plants weaving and hugging in the humid mountains behind us, the sun off duty, the moon filling in, I wasn’t sure if I was happy. But I wasn’t sure if I was sad either. A string of my swimsuit came undone, but instead of flirting further, I tied it quickly beneath the water, suddenly the self-consciousness of a pre-teen washing over me. We sat side by side, moving our feet in the water, slowly, as if they were webbed and belonged there. His lips stared at mine. The kiss was tender, leading to something, but my mind was elsewhere.
People stopped playing pool, the last cigarettes burning out. We stood up, the water gliding off our skin. We exchanged a few words and made our way back to the room. I followed him, my feet warm against the concrete, and my swimsuit unsure, whether it would have a few minutes to relax before coming off. He opened the glass panelled door, and I suddenly became uncertain- all I could think about were the fish, the ones who were not in the pool and the ones who grew to fit it.
THE END
Author Bio: Roseanne McCullough is a Creative Writing graduate from the University of Galway, Ireland. Her stories have been longlisted in the 2021 Colm Tóibín International Short Story Award and the 2025 Women On Writing Flash Fiction Award. Her piece "Car Journeys” was published in the 2025 Fall Issue of Sports Literate Chicago.