this would have been fine if she’d also bought a fish.
instead, she filled it with “objects of theoretical enrichment”—a lego astronaut, a tiny skull from the halloween aisle, and one (1) grape.
“fish are a social construct,” she said when agatha came home.
“they literally aren’t,” agatha said.
“they could be,” rio said. “if you think about it.”
“i’m begging you not to think about it.”
rio pointed at the tank. “look. micro-ecosystem. thriving.”
agatha stared. “there’s a grape.”
“the grape is decomposing.”
“and you’re watching it?”
she looked so proud that agatha’s irritation broke like wet paper.
agatha sighed, kissed her temple, and muttered, “i married a girl who narrates fermentation.”
later that night, rio was at her desk googling “how long does it take a grape to achieve sentience.”
agatha passed behind her, reading over her shoulder.
“then we name it after you.”
“romantic,” agatha said. “will it pay rent.”
“depends on its credit score.”
agatha poured herself tea and said nothing else because sometimes love meant selective muteness.
the next day rio texted her at work:
follow-up: calling it agatha junior (posthumously).
agatha: you realize this makes me the mother of a rotting grape
rio: ur a necromancer babe. own it.
rio: ok but can u pick up milk first
a week later, agatha found rio sitting cross-legged on the couch with the fishless tank.
it now contained a new grape, two googly eyes, and a sticky note that read “v2 (patch notes pending).”
“i thought we agreed no more biological experiments in shared spaces,” agatha said.
“we didn’t agree. you declared.”
“not legally,” rio said. “check the by-laws.”
“there will be when the grape unionizes.”
agatha pressed her lips together like someone trying not to smile through a court proceeding.
“fine. but if it starts growing mold—”
“that’s culture,” rio said. “literally.”
later that night, rio stuck a tiny label on the tank that said research funded by agatha harkness llc.
agatha saw it in the morning and just laughed. quietly.
she added a second sticky note underneath: fine. but publish the findings.
rio texted her from the kitchen:
update: grape v2 now has moral awareness.
rio: it looked at the googly eyes and blinked slowly.
agatha: that’s condensation
rio: don’t crush its spirit before peer review.
a week later, the grape was gone. agatha didn’t ask what happened.
she just noticed rio scrolling craigslist for aquariums “with narrative potential.”
“too late,” rio said. “i already named the next experiment.”
“tiny ones. metaphorical. they’ll represent emotional repression.”
“you’re doing this on purpose.”
agatha put her face in her hands and laughed until she gave up pretending it was frustration.
by sunday, there was a shrimp tank next to a laptop and the framed picture of agatha’s diploma.
rio was crouched beside it with a flashlight, whispering, “they’re thriving emotionally.”
agatha looked over her shoulder. “so am i.”
and also, somehow, the truth.
