Friday Night Lights

I'm 3/quarters of the way through a bottle of red; the cats are passed out in their favourite spots beside me; the fireplace is pumping; the husband is asleep in the bedroom with a migraine.

I'm trying to write a story about a fish in a bowl. It was commissioned by TNB for reasons beyond my comprehension. I've got a picture in my head of green light reflected on water, ripples above, sounds muffled by glass. It's harder to translate into a narrative, though.

Harder still to understand what he's asking for, but if he asks for a story I'll take him at face value. To look deeper into the motivations of men is to fly to close to the sun and risk the melt and the fall.