by Heather Emmanuel
You slide pescatarian into the conversation like it’s your word to claim.
“When it counts,” you say, scanning the menu. Across the table, in a crisp button-down and cuffed sleeves, she doesn’t bother pretending to read hers.
“And when does it count?”
The intensity of her slightly downturned eyes unnerves you. Her voice is light, but her gaze is not. You imagine this is how a fish feels in the instant it understands the hook.
She somehow remains polite enough to never look below your neck. Generosity or restraint, you make no effort to guess.
You could admit that pescatarianism is more of a dietary choice than a moral one. More convenience than conviction.
Instead, you order the lamb. Medium-rare.
She doesn’t bat an eye.
“You did say newly pescatarian,” she chides, not unkindly, all ease and elbows. You wince anyway, skim through your memory for the last omega-3 rich meal you had. As if memory serves you, here.
Without a glance at the menu, she chooses the branzino. Skin-on. No gloating — but there is a wink.A real one. You imagine she kisses the same way: soft, certain. The smile behind her wine glass could be sympathetic. Interpreting it any other way invites a can of worms you’d prefer to keep shut.
Another half truth: you’ve been attempting to slip into the sleeve of pescatarianism for the better part of a year. A new year’s resolution swimming well into leo season. But you did choose sushi for your birthday dinner and not a steakhouse.
“Progress,” she raises her glass. A toast, a challenge, or both. The word hypocrite clings like sediment in the wine, tickles your tongue, your throat. Your sip is decidedly longer than hers. Deliberately so. A ghost of cherry lip gloss clings to the rim, and you wonder if it’s a detail she favours.
You think of them. Lies. How some are more forgiving than others. Some pierce, some linger. Some nestle into crevices you don’t remember to check. They grow fins and gills and procreate until there are too many, too deep. Until the net closes, and you understand what it means to be caught.
Heather Emmanuel is a writer of contemporary lesbian literary fiction and prose poetry, exploring the complexities of human relationships, self-discovery, and the quiet moments in between. You can find her at heather-emmanuel.com
January House Literary Journal 
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