Wide-eyed and Flying

      There were fish in the sky when I first met you, all wide-eyed and flying. I had a pearl necklace clutched in my hand, you had a wild look in your eyes. We traveled upwards. The fish still flew.

      I’ve memorized the beats of my heart, the ones in my head, too. We traced our pulses with the tips of our fingers and memorized the lines on our skin. We looked up and compared the lines to stars, and laughed while the world began to end. 

      When I was four, my dance teacher pressed a wooden stick against my back, adjusting my slouch until the wood pressed flat.

      “Sit up straight,” she said her voice thick with a Chinese accent, “or you not sit.” 

      I got tired, annoyed, feeling belittled and picked on, unwilling to hold any instruction, so she sent me to the corner of the studio for the rest of the class. I thought standing in the corner of the room was not a punishment, it was an act of defiance. But the class continued, and I stood there with my chin up. No one paid me any attention, and I realized it didn’t matter whether or not I disobeyed. I tried to be good again, to do all the dances with utmost perfection and resilience. When I landed the envied center position, they all looked. Mom was the happiest. She clapped when rehearsal ended, pulled me by the hand, away from the glowering expressions on the faces of the other moms. 

      What can be said about the way hands hold one another? Not an embrace, but a greater sign of affection than a hug. I hugged you once, you never let me hold your hand. A curve and a curve and another one. What is a friendship if not admitting you hold affection for one another? What is a relationship if not the embrace of our emotions? I can hug you, but I can’t hold your hand.

      I think of an aquarium, and I think of fish flying, extracting oxygen where it seems like they would just drown. Then I start to cry. I want to fly too. I need a pair of wings. 

      Eighteen and it’s raining on my birthday. Raindrops fall on your forehead, and I wipe them away with ease. I am making a wish on a drop of water, and a fallen eyelash. We refuse to touch hands, and we look at them as if they are no longer a part of our bodies. Your lips curve, your eyes brighten, and I feel every heartbeat under my breast. 

      My dance teacher used to instruct me to breathe in through the nose, and out through the mouth. At some point, you don’t get enough air. 

      If there’s one thing you hate most in the world, it’s being confined by walls. So I thought I knew you, in any open space you could love me thoroughly, without restraints. 

      If anyone knew you like I did, they would also be able to see your imperfections. Your eyes drift when you are bored, your lips press into a flat line when you’re angry, and your brows furrow when you’re confused. I hate when you get angry because we are nothing, and I can’t help you. I wonder if there’s a language where the word nothing could ever translate to everything. We are everything. Will you hold my hand?

      I am sitting down on the bench next to the flying fish. The water casts pigments of blue all over the room and I’m trying to decipher the ability to breathe underwater. I’m wondering how the fish are getting enough air, and how they fly.