He would bubble words into the water. I put white paste on my mouth. I became his mother. The movement of my lips became songs through his blowhole. Songs he sang for me. Water, ball, blue. The walls were all plastered. The house was filled with water. An elevator moved him to the second floor. I had an air mattress where I slept beside him, a telephone on a table, a little stove. I fed him fish from a bucket. We swam in the water, our skins rubbing against each other.

Don’t even think in your own language, I started to think. We became bodies floating in the water.

He stayed on the second floor with me, his penis like another fish.

There is no other way to say this. My skin bruised blue. His beak between my legs.

I could send him back to the pool, to be with his own type, but what would be the point.

One day he sang my name.

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