Fried Fish

The night was winter cold. Outside the wind blew, beating against the house, driving snow and bitter ice into every crevice. Pitch dark except the anxious scattering of snowflakes in the yellow light of the streetlamps. In the distance a car roared, and otherwise nothing stirred.

Seymour, a student, couldn't sleep. He lay on his bed sweating, feet sticking out the side of the blanket in a desperate attempt to cool off. But his body remained hot, too hot, and slowly his feet were becoming too cold. Under the sheets his bare chest was slick with sweat. The room stank of sweat, the blanket seemed almost damp. He rolled over, adjusted it, rolled over again and adjusted his pillow. Outside, he heard the wind howl.

He wanted desperately to sleep, but everything struck him. Mingling with the smell of sweat was the strong scent of fried fish. The whole house stunk of it. They had had fish for supper, and Seymour had turned up the heat too high. Everything was permeated, drenched, his hair and clothes stank of fish, the smell slunk along the ground and found its way into every room. Seymour pushed his face into the pillow, trying to hide from the scent, but it gave no quarter, he could not stand it.

He was still too hot. The room was boiling hot, humid, sticky. He needed air. He got up in the dark room and opened up the window. A gust of cold, fresh winter wind came through the screen, hitting his sweat soaked body and momentarily giving him relief. He went to lie back down but the cold air had sank lower and as he sat back on his bed he felt his feet start to get even colder than they were, unbearably cold. He got back up and closed the window.

He sat on the edge of the bed, exasperated. He closed his eyes, willed that he could feel sleepy, but all that he felt was that strange tired that allows for no sleeping but barely leaves you awake. The quiet of the night was punctuated by the soft breathing of his girlfriend. She lay in bed behind him, facing away, breathing steadily. Broad forehead and lightly closed eyes, round nose, rolling hills of blanket running down to an almost serene sleeping face. She looked so peaceful. He was afraid to wake her.

They had fought, earlier, while they had cooked the fish. Cooking was something they did together, something in which she took great pride. They each had distinct roles. The vision of the meal was hers, and he merely a tool of its implementation. She would tell him, Seymour, wash the fish, Seymour, peel the potatoes, Seymour, start the pan. Off he would go, attentive, head down and working, ears up like a rabbit in case she might call again. Seymour, chop the onions. There was a particular method to everything. And last night, it was something in how he cut the onions. He had heard an exasperated sigh, he looked up and he saw her eyes lit with fixated rage, staring at him, watching him chop clumsily. “Hasn’t anyone taught you how to cook?” she snapped, and immediately he stepped back, threw up his hands.

Seymour glanced up at the alarm clock radio. Two in the morning. He glanced at himself in the mirror on the opposite side of the room. Moonlight ignited the pale sheet of his hunched over back. Involuntarily, he sat up straighter. He got up off the bed and put on a wrinkled white t shirt laying on the ground. The darkness of the room seemed to press in, the familiar outlines of his furniture and things seemed immeasurably big and looming. He could hear her steady breathing, the big mound of blankets rose and fell with clock like regularity, and he imagined that the heat of the room was her cause alone, that every breath brought the temperature of the stinking air up another degree. His forehead felt wet. How could she possibly be sleeping comfortably in these conditions? How could she sleep so soundly? Wasn’t she too hot? A strange feeling entered his chest and he brought back his leg in order to kick the bed frame, to wake her, but he stopped himself at the last moment and shook his head. There would be no sleeping for him tonight, that much was clear. Trying to be quiet, he turned and walked out of the room.

The kitchen was dirty. A slick spattering of grease on the stove top shone in the moonlight. Everywhere, food and bits of trash – a bag of potatoes leaned against the wall, plastic wrap on the counter, spatterings of salt by the sink. Onion peels that had fallen onto the floor. He surveyed all with weary eyes, trudged by, dust bunnies followed him as he walked. Here in the kitchen the smell of fish was even worse. He sat down at the counter for a minute, the whole mess before him, and he scrolled Instagram. He thought again about their fight – such a little, empty thing, but what animal hatred she had had. Her round fingers snatching up the knife from him in one quick motion, her pulled back lips, her rolled eyes – “Hasn’t anyone taught you how to cook?” as though he couldn't be trusted with anything. As though he were a child. The emptiness of the kitchen screamed at him, the hollowness of it all flying out of the dark like an unbidden guest. It all struck to deeply. He felt a dull roar in the pit of his stomach.

He got up from the counter, opened the fridge and spotted an apple, bright red. He took it out and took a bite. It was good. The light of a passing car came through the window and for a moment the sheeny wax of the apples skin lit up like a spotlight. As he returned to his seat at the counter he took another bite.

He felt a raw and sickly sort of energy, the nervous energy of the sleepless, and he leaned into it. Her and her stupid meals. Always Asian, always something deep fried and fat, always garnished to look a certain way – he hated the garnishes, hated their frivolous look. Eating was something he used to enjoy. Now it was pomp and ceremony, they ate not because they were hungry but because they wanted to. He wasn’t a great cook, sure, maybe he was a bad cook, he wasn’t good at everything, she didn’t have to shout at him. He remembered the fish crackling and popping, the oil dripping off the side, how her eyes looked as the fish left the pan. Animal desire. He had forgotten to take out the compost that night – “forgotten”, he was simply too busy – and from the bags spot in the corner of the room came the earthy smell of rot intermingled with the ever present scent of fried fish. But he had been busy. He was always busy.

Time was his fundamental problem. Everything took so much time. He had no time to learn how to cook, no time to clean the kitchen, no time to take out the compost. He ran around all day until the moment he climbed into bed and even then, like tonight, there was no rest. And he was never alone. She was always there, impossibly big and warm. Never did he get a moment of quiet for himself. But even then, he was more afraid to be alone than to be with her. Even after she said the things she said he was drawn back to her, drawn back into the warmth. He could never leave her. She was all he had.

Seymour felt disgust and comfort simultaneously, sickly sweet like a bowl of ice cream. He took another bite of the apple. He knew he would be in her kitchen for the rest of his life, always chopping onions, always failing in some minute way. She would stand over him forever, hands on hips, tapping her foot, the harsh kitchen light illuminating the indentation of her furrowed brow while he scrambled, left then right, back and forth, cutting vegetables, peeling potatoes, flipping the fish, and those disappointed eyes and the stench of fried fish would follow him wherever he went…

He woke up. His head was on the table and the apple sat next to his hand half finished. He lifted his head slowly. Through the cracks between the shutters of the kitchen window light fell and specks of dust flashed like shining bits of metal. It was early, only 7am. With light fingers Seymour touched the side of his face he had slept on as one touches a wound. He felt wide awake.

In the early morning sun everything was lit in a series of contrasts. The old corduroy couch in the living room was backlit, the front black, the fuzzy arms aglow. The dark had receded from the kitchen and everything, even the onion peels, seemed more pleasant. Seymour's eyes followed the line of the white painted windowsill, traveling along a spine between sunlight and dark shadow. He had forgotten what he was angry about.

He knew he had been upset about their argument last night. He knew he was upset with her. But as he wiped the sleep from his still half closed eyes he could not understand why he had felt so strongly. He was still upset, surely, nothing had changed there, but the fury that had animated him last night was gone. All that was left was a sentiment, an aftertaste of anger that lightly tensed the muscles of his midsection, but was so faint and so far behind that he could barely see it. He furrowed his brow, thought a little – tried to reignite the fire, for he felt some loyalty still to his previous feelings – but pleasant exhaustion had settled like morning fog over his mind and he felt nothing but a little bit of hunger. He pressed himself out of the stool, supported by the edge of the counter, and went into the kitchen to make himself some coffee.

From the hallway he heard a noise and saw his girlfriend walking out of their bedroom. She wore a pair of gray exercise shorts and a tank top. Her hair was knotted and frayed and her eyes were bleary.

“What are you doing up so early?” she asked, half asleep and confused.

“I don’t know,” he replied, “I fell asleep.”