The Social Anxieties of Goldfish

8 The Social Anxieties of Goldfish Patrick Carrington I stare into the window of Starbucks and make a man sitting there nervous. He bows his head over his coffee and pound cake as if they were gravestones. He’s becoming uncomfortable waiting for me to look away. There’s a small twitch he tries to hide in public, the unnecessary gestures of his hands. All I’m doing is waiting for a bus, and he needs a corner that is not there to huddle in. He wraps himself in his arms. They cling to him like wild vines. His body twists and curls as if it’s looking for a way out, a current to swim into the closest river— at a certain time of night, the café empties. I have seen him then too, in dusk’s yellow wash of light, before he sees me. He’s different when he thinks he’s alone. There’s something almost resembling trust, however faint, as if he has taken on the way of a small bird, aware of its own fragility yet willing perhaps to show itself in exchange for a whistle and piece of toast. Until he spots me—I see him sigh as he looks through an imagined curve of glass into my eyes. They fall down luminous upon him. They’re as big as the moon. ...