restaurant with a lobster tank and a warning sign that reads DO NOT LOOK DIRECTLY INTO THEIR EYES and when the waiter comes and asks you which lobster you want you notice one looking right at you and you blink and suddenly youre looking at yourself from inside of the tank and see yourself stand up and start snapping your hands like claws

The Lobster Tank

You were never much for fine dining. It’s off putting, the quiet environment filled with the affluent who watch you. Watching. Always watching. 

You went on a date at a fancy restaurant once on a whim- someone you met online had invited you- but the atmosphere wasn’t quite your style. The quiet jazz only contributed to the awkwardness, and when a stranger commented on your ‘unconventional’ use of forks, your disdain deepened. The venues are always so small, so dark. 

Once, you were invited to a wedding by a coworker. You stared at the letter in the yellow, flickering light of the kitchen bulb that was about to go out, fidgeting with the folds of the envelope. You knew the suits (and skeletons) in your closet would serve only to embarrass you, and that the guests would say only that your hairstyle was cute, never handsome. The invitation sat on the counter until you spilled wine on it weeks later. Had the wedding date already passed by then? 

Soon, summertime had come and gone, and days drug their feet as they passed, holding the sun lower, then lower in the sky. You skipped work one day, opting instead for the safe haven that was your bed. Getting up before the sky brightens isn’t ideal. The next day you coughed into the phone, calling in with the flu. Everyone gets sick these days. Your sinuses are close enough in proximity to the real problem, anyways. 

“You need to get out more, see the world!” a coworker had said. It was the same coworker who had sent you the invitation to the wedding. You still felt guilty about not going. 

You smiled and laughed when everyone else did, and you didn’t protest when she showed up at your apartment, unannounced. You never mentioned how angry it made you that she wrinkled her nose when she saw your bedroom, or how much you hated that she made you wear makeup. You didn’t complain when she rummaged through your closet to find a dress that you had shoved all the way to the back, ignoring all the perfectly good-looking tuxes that sat dry cleaned at the front. You didn’t comment about any of this, and you only grumbled a bit when the cab pulled up to the curb of a fancy seafood joint. 

It was fine inside, you supposed. The faint clinking of glass and silverware made you groan internally, but at least this time the lights were on in a shade you liked. The yellow hue was the only inviting thing. A waiter approached you and Marta, escorting you to a table next to a sizable tank of lobsters. 

You were never a superstitious person. The idea of forces you couldn’t see didn’t make much sense to you. Nevertheless, you averted your eyes from the tank once you read the sign hanging on the glass. It hung neatly from a gold colored string with gold lettering, which read: DO NOT LOOK DIRECTLY INTO THEIR EYES. You didn’t. 

The water looked dull. Dreary. You imagine what it would be like to be one of those lobsters. Held in captivity like that, destined to meet a cruel, lonely end. The purpose they served seemed a noble one from a human perspective, but did they even know they served a purpose? 

A waiter appeared. You tried to pretend the lobsters in the tank weren’t there as Marta ordered the lobster course for the two of you. 

“Would you like to choose?” The waiter gestured to the tank. You shook your head, but you couldn’t help but follow his gaze, your eyes coming to rest on a lobster who stared right back at you. 

He was a peculiar little thing, the lobster. You realized that you’ve never really seen a lobster up close before. His eyes were black and beady, and it looked as though you could see your reflection if you got up close. 

You looked back at the waiter, but suddenly you’re looking at the wrong side of him. Wasn’t he facing you five seconds ago? You look at Mara- or was it Mary?-, and she looks back at you, except she’s not looking at you. She’s looking at someone sitting across from her. Someone with a choppy haircut and makeup that doesn’t look quite right, someone who is staring directly at you. 

You shiver. When did the water get so cold?