She’s not a solid state. She curves and winds like a river. Pours into me, drains me dry. She’ll recycle it all later on her pillow.
Her desire grew out of desperation the situation was innocent enough, bareable enough for most trophy wives. They vowed each other forever only a year and a day before she came to me. She found the ties that bound merely a rope a noose, the ring counterfeit. The only thing colder than the band upon her finger was the fish she shared a bed with at night.
She tried to swim with him, that pickled herring who longed for upright movement. His slobbery kisses hooked her but he was stiffer than a corpse now. Her prison was lovely, like a giant aquarium filled with shiny baubles and shiny friends. But it was too small. She was rising to the top, flailing against the current.
I meant to free her from him. But she wouldn’t let me. It had to be done though.
I freed us both to our own whims, not without a little bloodshed on her part.
Now I, I wear the ring and chain, and she swims freely with the fishes.
I find the aquarium to my liking, though I find I cannot wash myself of her blood.