Standing in front of a small wall of tanks full of tropical fish for sale. Narrow silver and red ones. Ones that were blue and acqua shaped in a way that reminded me of clipper-ship sails. Orange and normal. Large and sedantry. Plastic pebbles, bubbles, deep blue plastic backgrounds and Davy Jones’ locker sunk to the bottom of the ocean–tank–every tank.
I was standing in the middle of a sparse forest of displayed pine furniture, looking back at the Pets Dept. A woman, the shp asst. stood on a step ladder and leaned over one of the tanks. With a fishnet she swished through the water, in pursuit of something but what, I could not tell. She brought the net up empty. Its plastic mesh releasing the odd drop of water back into the aquaraium, drip, drip, drip. The woman straghtened slightly, paused and stared into the water.
Then came several jabs with the net. The water rocked about in its rectangular, glass casing. Again, I could tell that the end result was not the one that was hoped for. Another pause. The woman dropped the net and plunged both of her primly sleeved arms into the tank, raking through the sand and pebbles with spread fingers in an energetic way. She slapped the surface of the water and it splashed onto the floor.