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Benigno’s cart overwhelms him today. His jaw tight and a sheen of perspiration across his bare forearms, he pushes the heavy load up the path to my cage. A hazard of large sacks is balanced before him, the contents of which I cannot make out from where I float.

He tells me he has come to “decorate the tank” and hopes I will assist him in the endeavor.

While there is still daylight, he carries each sack to the grate and sets loose more sand and gravel from the beach than I have touched in an age, a trove of small seashells embedded in the grains like treasures meant for my discovery. I shape it in gentle slopes across the floor with my tail. I want to burrow in its familiar comfort.

When the last of his burdens is carried up to my roof—a thick branch of driftwood for a seat—he pauses to rest himself.

Deft fingers sweep stray curls of his black hair aside, clearing a path for the cloth he drags along his cheek into the supple cleft of his throat. When was his last sip of water? His lips look far too arid.

A kiss would restore their shine...

I catch myself again, watching Benigno with my heart alight and heat in my eyes.

What would he do if he knew that, when he is near me, I hunger for more than my freedom?