she will startle at your stealthy approach, head swiveling like those livestock pigs cornered within fairground tents. quick—before you lose her to the crowd, you’ll spurt off one of the flattering phrases in your inventory, something about how a guy like you could get lost in eyes as deep as hers. it’ll be true this time. this young woman’s dark eyes pop against her caramel-brown skin, against those white-blonde curls. she’ll blush at your compliment. they always do. there is a method, a formula to lure in the girl. you’ve seen it countless times before, all of those dopey-eyed couples sharing extra-large lemonades and deep-fried delicacies on the ferris wheel. the bloated plastic baggie will twitch in your grip, your carnival prize squirming inside its liquid prison. right. the fish. feeding the baggie into her hands, you’ll whisper, here, i won this just for you, just like you practiced in the rearview mirror on the drive to the county fair. any phrase like this will coax a woman into feeling wanted. this particular girl will squint at the game booth lights refracted through water and plastic, studying the measly orange creature gasp wordless pleas mistaken as kissing. that’s real sweet of you, she’ll say through a sno-cone-stained grin, but my landlord doesn’t allow pets. that but will tear through you like a bullet piercing the plastic water-swollen baggie dangled awkwardly between you two. no matter the girl, this conversation will always end with a but. thanks, but i can’t afford to take care of this. but my cat will get to it. but i don’t want to deal with the commitment. that goldfish offering will always be handed back to you after some bullshit apology. this girl is so pretty though, that you’ll go off-script in some attempt to revive your chance at getting with her. i didn’t catch your name, you’ll blurt. she’ll say it’s esther. esther. i’m wes. our names practically fit into one another, isn’t that a sign? esther’s eyes will suck you in like a pair of black holes when she pushes that goldfish back into your possession, murmuring, nice to meet you, wes. have a good night. her words will nauseate you, but you’ll blame it on the tang of funnel cake sugar on your lips, the stench of tractor smoke in your nostrils. that goldfish will panic when you stomp across the fairground, through the muddy parking field, and into your pickup truck where you’ll toss it with the other dozen carnival prize rejects from earlier attempts. you can’t get caught reusing somebody else’s turn-down as a lure, so you’ll have to win a new fish each time. more rejects. it’s a curse, you’ll convince yourself. you’re a whiz at winning the fish, but the girl? that’s where you’re screwed. by the end of the night, you will haul home armloads of rejections, adding them to hundreds more smothering your living quarters. countless bulbous eyes will judge you eating in front of the television. you’ll drift off spooning baggies of failures, wishing that you’ll wake to warm skin hugging you back. you’ll think of that one girl. esther. those dark marble eyes. those syrup-stained teeth. that despicable word forming across her lips: but. during your fitful slumber, those goldfish will bloat the size of dollar store balloons, busting through their plastic cells. you’ll wake to a nightmare in itself, all of those beasts twitching across your floorboards with wet, fleshy thumps. the bathtub is only a temporary solution. you’ll have to waste your paycheck on massive, aquarium-sized tanks. those rejections will swell even larger, mottling with moldy patterns mirroring your own contempt. they’ll taunt you with those ugly lips, mouthing but. but. but. keeping them may be a burden, but this duty is an obligation. at least these aquatic turn-downs act as proof that you tried to win a woman worth loving. all that you’ll afford to feed them are your own delusions, that someday you’ll reel in someone worth your time. soon, those goldfish mutants will shatter the tanks, smothering you with those pathetic gasps. but. but. but. to free up space in the house, you’ll have to hire someone to dig a pond in that wooded property down the street. once stocking the pond to max capacity, you’ll be struck with an idea. what if you could recycle these rejections? what if you played the handsome fisherman role and took a girl out here on a date? that would be romantic, wouldn’t it? hell, you already know how to win the fish. might as well recast the line once more. you’ll empty every lake, every river, every ocean on this godforsaken planet if it means one girl, just one girl, will treat you with a shred of decency.