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Shiori’s goldfish had died again.
She looked at it with great disappointment as it floated belly up in its small tank, its golden scales catching the morning light.
“Damn it,” she said softly. “I never can keep pets. I have no idea what happened this time.”
This was directed at Touga, who was lying in bed still, mostly naked. He was not listening to her. He rarely did. She was pretty sure he was texting another girl on his phone. Neither of these things, however, bothered her. She went back to looking at her goldfish.
“Didn’t even get to name it this time,” she continued to grumble, scooping it out with her hands.
She looked at the dead thing lying in her palm. He was the same color as Juri’s locket. Gold was a pretty color, but she preferred orange. Someday she’d find something orange and put it in a locket of her own. Maybe one of those American butterflies. Yes, she could pull the wings off. Watch it wiggle and die before putting them in something gold and eternal.
“Touga,” she said. “I want a monarch butterfly.”
He stopped texting to smile at her.
“So demanding as always. What is that you’re holding?”
His expression soured as he realized she had a dead fish in her hand. Shiori shrugged, dumping it into the trash bin.
“My fish died. I told you.”
This wasn’t an admonishment, but he took it as one anyhow, his face darkening with anger.
“Watch your tone. And don’t pick up dead things with your hands. It’s unladylike."
“I’m not ladylike, Touga,” Shiori said, her hands, now empty, curled behind her back. “You know that already. There’s nothing ladylike or sweet about me. I want those butterflies to pull their wings off.”
Touga laughed at that, his anger fading.
“You’re quite the disgusting woman, Shiori Takatsuki.”
“Oh, you don’t know,” she said, biting her lip so hard it hurt. “You really don’t know.”
And no one would, except the orange thing she’d maim and kill. No one. Because that was real love. Pulling off someone's wings.
“I’ll get you as many butterflies as you want,” Touga said.
Shiori smiled.
“I love you, Touga.”
“No, you don’t,” he said.
And he was right. She had no desire to pull his wings off. She looked over their room, a perfect white. Spotless. Empty. Silent. Her tank, empty of fish now, was the only thing of worth in it.
Humming to fill up some of the space, she wandered over to him. As he wrapped his arms around her, she closed her eyes and imagined orange things. Butterflies, sunsets, fish, roses, and fruits. Locks of hair. And in the middle, a flash of gold.