The parasite breeds there, and then baby parasites get crapped out into the water by birds,
whereupon they meet with a fish, and the cycle begins anew.
I was trying to explain to him why this freaked me out so much but not really succeeding,
and I recognized that I’d pulled the conversation very far away from the point where we’d held hands and been close to kissing,
that now I was talking about parasite-infected bird feces, which was more or less the opposite of romance,
but I couldn’t stop myself, because I wanted him to understand that I felt like the fish, like my whole story was written by someone else.
I even told him something I’d never actually said to Daisy or Dr. Singh or anybody—
that the pressing of my thumbnail against my fingertip had started off as a way of convincing myself that I was real.
As a kid, my mom had told me that if you pinch yourself and don’t wake up, you can be sure that you’re not dreaming;
and so every time I thought maybe I wasn’t real, I would dig my nail into my fingertip,
and I would feel the pain, and for a second I’d think, Of course I’m real.
But the fish can feel pain, is the thing. You can’t know whether you’re doing the bidding of some parasite, not really.
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