“Dramatic Exit?” the man in the gray suit asks, pointing to the stingray leather menu as I shake a cocktail longer than necessary, fingers numb from frost fuzzing up the steel. Turquoise light ripples across his face from the water above us, the sun a lazy disco ball far above the dome.
Behind him, Onda watches us from her floor-to-ceiling saltwater tank in the center of the room, her sideways pupils narrowed. Neon circles light the nanoglass column as she presses her suckers to hidden pads, sculpting eerie soundwaves. What I wouldn’t give for a cheesy pop song.
I strain the drink into a coupe, its stem a crystal tentacle. The scent of vanilla poached from endangered orchids wafts from the glass. Nothing synthetic here at Brine & Dine, the second most exclusive restaurant under the sea.
I gesture towards Onda and lean forward as if I’m telling the man a secret, rather than something I tell all the men in expensive suits. “When an octopus wants to escape a predator, it can distract them by releasing a puff of ink resembling itself . . . a shadow of misdirection.”
He watches closely as I squirt a dropper into the glass, suspending a blue-black cloud inside it. We used to use octopus’ ink, but my manager Fernando decided squid ink was prettier—so I no longer feel the need to mouth “sorry” to Onda when I prep this drink, as if she may be offended by it.
The scent of fish lingers in the air for a moment. Nobody cares what the cocktails taste like here, only how many critically threatened or otherwise taboo ingredients we can squeeze into each one. Octopus and squid are especially popular after being declared sentient almost everywhere but international waters.
I put the coupe on my coworker Miguel’s waiting tray, while he points at an imaginary watch on his wrist. If he’s going to show up an hour late for his shift and make snide remarks about my trailer park past, he can surely wait an extra minute. Most people see my cochlear buds and assume I can’t understand them if they whisper, but I can pick up the faintest mutter of contempt from across this cavernous room.
The droning music in the bar is broken up by sax-like squeals as Miguel sashays past Onda’s tank. Miguel hisses at her, and she swells her arms into an eight-point star, billowing in sulky silence before returning to her song. Bumps shimmer across her copper skin like angry fairy lights.
“What are you doing after work?” Gray Suit asks the gap between the buttons on my blouse.
“Janitorial service. No such thing as after work in this economy.” I smile sweetly, but I can’t stop myself from adding, “If there was, I’d find the most remote desert on the surface, with nothing but tumbleweeds for company.”
“No such thing as remote places either,” he says, failing to take a hint. “Below the ocean’s as remote as you can get, with ten billion people up there—so smile, gorgeous.” He raises his seahorse infused martini to me and I wipe down the bar, ignoring the command.
Fernando beckons to me from the other end of the bar. “Maya, a moment?”
Something resembling a tuba note blasts from the speakers as I skulk my way to the far ice well. I can feel Onda watching me again as she plucks through dissonant synth tones. “Oh, shut up,” I mumble in her direction. “I’ve got my own problems, Onda.”
Fernando shakes his head at me. “What the Hell has gotten into you today? This isn’t your honkytonk dive back home—get your shit together and be nice.”
I take a deep breath, but before I can tell him how much I hate his pompous mustache, shouts erupt from the dining area.
Miguel is crouched on the floor, picking up his tray, and two women are standing up at a table, yelling at each other across it.
“I saw the look you gave him,” one of them is shouting over the avant-garde static and bleeps from the speakers. “You think I don’t notice?”
“Oh, get over it!” The other one slams a fist on the table. “I’ve had enough with your constant insecurities, and your loud chewing.”
“You know what?” Miguel swipes the rest of their dishes onto the floor. “I’ve had enough of both of you.”
The shorter woman takes a swing at Miguel, and he blocks it with his drink tray. I look to Fernando for guidance, but he’s busy tugging his shirt off as if it’s been strangling him.
Gray Suit’s barstool is empty. He’s now pacing back and forth, shuddering strangely and shouting into his phone, “I’m gonna do what I want—from now on, I’m the hero of my own goddamn story!”
Near the restroom door, two men are circling each other. One spits on the floor.
I don’t know why, but I feel like running. Not running to or from anything—I wish I could run up the walls of the dome and scream until I’m hoarse. My knuckles are white on the edge of the bar and my teeth are grinding in rhythm with the bass notes thumping from the speakers.
The bass notes. Onda swishes gracefully around her tank, turning multiple knobs at a time with coiled arms. Watching our reactions.
“Fernando!” I find him huddled shirtless behind the host station, tearing up credit card receipts. “What’s the frequency range of these speakers?”
He blinks up at me, looking insulted. “No expense was spared. These are custom.”
More shouts from the dining area, where a tangle of multiple bodies has formed on the floor. A deep, minor chord rumbles through the room and vibrates my stomach.
I rip out my hearing aids.
Fernando’s mouth is moving, Miguel is pushing tables over, and bowls of shark fin soup are crashing to the floor, but the whole world is silent.
I know I should help them. I should find the volume control for the sound system and turn it down—but I just stand there, watching Onda dance as the room grows oddly dark.
The thing is, I have always been a traitor.
Until now, I’ve been a traitor to what I know is right—it’s hard not to be, in this world. I’ve seen Onda’s suffering, her loneliness. I know what it’s like to feel trapped, separated from your own kind.
To feel with all your soul that where you are is wrong.
Gray Suit shakes my arm and points up at the ceiling. Swirls of black ink are forming above us in the water, blocking out the sun. Ripples of white glitter through the dark like stars, and then they all blink out.
Fernando puts his hands to his ears and doubles over. Miguel and the brawling guests detangle into fetal positions, clutching their heads. On the bar in front of me, a pint glass shatters silently.
A crack is etching itself into the dome, branching out like a bleached piece of coral where Onda’s tank meets the ceiling.
No expense spared, my ass.
Onda jets to the top of her tank, the hero of her own story, a whirl of arms twisting into a bullet.
