Sitting in a waiting room. A cube-shaped aquarium in the corner with five fish, tropical, saltwater, of various species, swimming in staccato circular pulses that remind me of hoverflies riding miniature convection currents in the thick air of an August afternoon.
Mesmerizing.
Around me, a handful of people, most staring into their palms.
The aquarium: a mirror, a fractal echo of the larger room, itself a microcosm of the world outside—all of us in forced confinement, wild beings stuck in a box, surrounded by strangers, cheap furniture, and plastic plants, with nowhere to go.
And still we wait.
