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Who Is the Fish?

"You're right," he said as he unlocked the passenger
door of the car and pulled it wide. "Much ado about
nothing. I probably just need some time away from inspired
housewife authors and..."
He froze. The woman at his side, the woman now
lowering herself into the passenger seat of his car, was not
Christy. A small, Oriental woman with short, jet-black hair
now sat in his car, watching him, a welcoming smile on her
strangely familiar lips. He felt himself being pulled gently
forward. He closed his eyes, took a breath.
"Well, you've got one day off," the dark woman said.
"And you've got me, you lucky man, to spend it with."
Bertram refused to open his eyes. He leaned against the
car door, shaking, unable to breath. "Who..."
"Bertram? Are you okay?"
Bertram rubbed his eyes, then stared down at the
restored Christy. He managed a weak smile.
"No," he said, "I am not okay." Then after a pause, he
added, "Read any good books lately?"
The alarm clock screamed and Bertram woke with a
start. He slapped wearily at the nightstand and managed to
silence the little box by knocking it to the floor.
00:L ... He rubbed his eyes and looked again - 7:00.
He'd been asleep less than an hour, but he had been
dreaming. He peeled back the covers and scrambled for the
nightstand drawer, for the pen and notebook he'd stashed
there the previous evening:
I was again a golden fish swimming in the void. Within
me, inside my body, was a man. I knew I was the man as
well as the fish, but the man was unaware of me. He saw
only himself, his own face reflected back to him from the
mirror-like walls.