Something Smells Fishy

Date: 11/2/2025

I’m back at the dentist. That same antiseptic tang - disinfectant and fear — hangs in the air like a warning siren you can smell. “Not this place again,” I mutter, lowering myself into the chair in the waiting area. Alex sits beside me, eyes fixed on his phone, the reflected light flickering across his face. I try not to let him sense my unease, but fear has a way of seeping out, osmosis-style. “Amanda,” a voice calls. My stomach drops. The dentist appears — a petite Chinese woman with an unnaturally cheerful face. Her smile stretches too wide, as though painted on. I can’t tell if it’s meant to soothe me or unsettle me. I’m going with the latter, since my body starts vibrating like a jackhammer. “Calm down, my love,” she coos. Her tone is syrupy. I squeeze my eyes shut as she calls out a sequence of numbers I don’t understand. Each one lands like a knock on a locked door somewhere inside me. After a moment, she sighs in what sounds like relief. “Your teeth are in impeccable order, Mrs. Lyle.” Her own teeth gleam—too bright, too perfect, as if they’ve never touched real food. “But… what about fillings?” I ask. “It’s been four years.” She hesitates, and then her eyes narrow with clinical curiosity. “Well… there is something.” My pulse stutters. “You have some suspicious-looking scales at the back of your throat,” she says. “Scales?” I echo. She leans in, her breath faintly smelling of saltwater. “Yes,” she whispers. “You’re turning into a fish, Amanda.” For a moment, I think she’s joking. But her expression doesn’t waver. “Tell your husband to buy a human-sized tank. You won’t survive out of water in a few weeks. But—” her voice lifts again into false brightness, “keep up the great brushing.” Alex looks up from his game and gives me a small, pitying smile. “And here,” the dentist adds, “have a sweetie. For being such a good girl.” She offers me an open bag of Swedish Fish. The irony hits me square in the gut. The room darkens. Now I’m standing in an abandoned underground subway. The lights flicker weakly, trying to keep themselves alive. The walls are slick with graffiti and grime; puddles ripple underfoot. The air reeks—fish again, sharp and wrong. Slumped on a torn sofa is Kylie’s ex-boyfriend — Alex. Not my Alex, a different one. The years have carved him down to something skeletal. I pray he doesn’t see me, but recognition glints in his eyes like a hook catching light. “Amanda,” he says, too cheerfully. “I’ve missed you, girl.” “Really?” I reply flatly. I never understood what Kylie saw in him, but I suppose we all followed her strange tides back then. “Do you live here now?” I ask. He pats the sofa with a grimy hand. “Yeah. This has been home for a few years.” He grins. His teeth are black stubs, brittle as driftwood. I try to hide my revulsion, but my face betrays me. I reach into my pocket, desperate to offer something—anything—to bridge the silent chasm between us. My fingers brush against plastic. I pull it out. A bag of Swedish Fish. He stares at it. I can’t breathe. “I’ve got to go,” I stammer, and bolt into the darkness— — into another scene. I’m back home, alone. My phone is silent. I realize no one has posted in the group chat for months. “Did they make a new one without me?” I wonder, the thought nibbling at me like something with teeth. Curiosity wins. I open WhatsApp and nearly choke: thousands of unread messages flood the screen, scrolling endlessly, a torrent I can’t keep up with. “Ah, shit.” I try to read, but it’s too much. The world has kept spinning without me. Liz is globe-trotting, leaping continents like stepping stones. Sophie’s toddlers are now teenagers, one accepted into some prestigious university. Laura has gone off-grid—wood cabin, chickens, solar panels, self-sufficient everything. Jenni’s running empires. And me? I’m a fish. Submerged in water, trapped behind curved glass. I circle the same fake castle, over and over. I can see the world beyond the tank, blurred and unreachable. Sometimes I come up for air—but stop myself. I delete the group chat. “Adios, amigos,” I say, but the sound is warped, muffled. Like words spoken underwater. Bubbles rise where my voice should be. And for a moment, I think I see my reflection in the glass— eyes wide, mouth open— and the faint shimmer of scales at my throat.