'Seahorses' by Christina Taylor

I’m in the supermarket, deep in the vegetable aisle, and I can’t remember why I’m here.

What I can recall is when I met you. I saw you in the aquarium, surrounded by squawking school kids, telling them you were in charge of the seahorses.  Your proud smile was cute, and any man who likes animals must be okay, right?

On our first date, you told me seahorses were monogamous, mated for life. I took this as a sign, let you take me home, go all the way.

On our third date, you told me seahorses preferred to swim in pairs with their tails linked together. From that moment on you wouldn’t leave me alone, always at my side, clammy hand in mine.

On our tenth date, you told me seahorses were the only species on Earth where the males gave birth. Wouldn’t that be nice, I joked.  Nine months later I wasn’t laughing.

On our final date, right before you said you were leaving me, you told me seahorses had super camouflage capabilities. I couldn’t look at you then for all the tears in my eyes.

Today, I see you attempting to conceal yourself amongst the cruciferous vegetables. Unlike your precious seahorses, you cannot hide.