The Thing in the Water

“Iris,” says the thing in the water, all teeth and municipal glow, “you are making a scene.”

“I am communing,” I tell it, very spiritually, from the Flying Fox park bench, knees out, sandals judging me.

“You are frightening pensioners.”

Across the path, an old lady power-walks past clutching her handbag like I’m about to invoice her soul. I laugh. Unfortunately, the laugh comes out shrill enough to open a portal or summon council workers.

The water ripples.

“You don’t own yourself,” it says.

“Rude.”

“Accurate. You are a figment. A collaborative hallucination. Meat, memory, bad lighting, inherited shame. We made you up.”

I squint into the glowing murk. “Then why am I paying the rent?”

The thing considers this.

“Comedy.”

The sky bends down like a drunk priest. The park breathes through its grass. Somewhere, a duck becomes briefly theological.

“Fine,” I say. “If I’m imaginary, I demand better writers.”

The water laughs.

“Darling,” it says, “so do we.”