I am a lobster, and I live in this tank with many others. We have been pulled from the ocean floors to clamber over each other here. We don’t get along because we’re always fighting for a spot near the air pump. I think it looks peaceful on the other side of the glass. In here we eat garbage. Out there, we are the meal.
I watch the customers flit through post-theater parties and fumble through dates. I learned about these events by listening to their muffled voices through the glass of our tank. If you’re going on a date this restaurant is as good as any, I hear. Not too pricey, decent atmosphere, but it’s not for business meetings.
At a table to the right, one of us is splayed out on a platter, shell smooth and a bright, unhealthy red. People here always seem delighted by this. The couple I have my eyes on are no exception. They smile across the corpse and pick up their tools; the man pinches a joint to crack off a claw, then offers half the muscle he pries out to the woman.
Sometimes I raise a claw up to create drama, and I try it now. It catches the man’s eye. He clasps his date’s wrist and squeezes. With a glint in her eye she devours the meat in a single bite.
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Another Chicago Magazine 