Enclosures

Nathan Asala

I love him. Of course, I do. How would I not? He’s tall, taller than me at least, and that’s always something. He dresses well and he always says that I “look like a million bucks.” Even when I barely try. What gal wouldn’t want that? When he called me on the phone to invite me here, I had just known he felt it too. The connection that everyone always talks about. The butterflies in your stomach. The rose-coloured lenses. Two weeks from now, I’ll be walking down the aisle with tears in my eyes and tossing the bouquet to the next lucky girl. Sometimes I get so deep in thought that I forget to make conversation. Something I usually feel self-conscious about, but not with him because… I think he does it too. I hear light tapping and pecking from in front of us. Seeds on the pavement. 

“Did you know that only male peacocks have those colorful feathers?” he says, “The female ones practically look like turkeys. Not much to look at, but the males still want to attract their attention.” He’s so smart, just like Mom said. I could listen to him rattle off facts all day.  

So I ask, “Does it ever work? Do the female peacocks fall for it?” He can see me grinning, and he laughs.

“Oh, always. Hook, line, and sinker. It’s called selective mating. If not for that, then things would be random. The mates would be pretty much perfect strangers.” He always has this somber suaveness to him. Hands in his pocket, never a full smile, only a smirk. Anywhere else, it would be accompanied by a sip of whiskey.

I blush as I turn to look at him, “That’s so romantic. They choose each other and start a family. No wonder they roam the zoo freely, they have to for love.”

He takes a moment and then responds, never even lifting his head to look at me, “Yeah, I mean, in the end, the end goal of any animal is to eat, sleep, and mate. It’s all just for the goal of reproduction.” In that mere thought, he sucked all of the courtship out of it. He would do that sometimes. Being a biologist, he knows a little extra about most things. And sometimes, that can… dilute the experience of it all. It’s like knowing the mundane and practical reality behind a magic trick. But my parents say that it’s that kind of head on his shoulders that’ll keep me ensured. Protected. Guaranteed a good future. And if that means that our slow strolls at the zoo are sometimes more… prosaic, then I would prefer, then so be it.  

I can see him thinking. Calculating. His perfect teeth are slightly chattering as he narrows his eyebrows. He finally looks up to meet my eyes. 

“So… I hear you’re a florist.” He says it a bit… odd. Is it a question? And if so, what kind? I want to be sure this time. Sometimes, I give too much as an answer. I tend to go on and that can be a bit much for him. I know that now. I’m used to sharing everything, even despite the small verbal social conventions that I often forget. I forget to speak but when I do, I articulate, so, if it’s a short answer question, then I’ll adjust accordingly. 

“You heard that I was a florist? You mean-”

“My parents told me.” He finishes my thought. That’s another convenient thing about these types of relationships. We can skip past the whole ‘getting to know you’ thing. Our parents already did it for us. Sure, some may say that that part’s half of the fun, but when you already know you’re going to marry a person, things like that become insignificant. They fade away. I’ve been assured that he is the man for me. I love him already. He opens his mouth, only air escaping for the first few seconds. “You know, my buddies found this whole… arrangement a bit… odd. I mean, you have to admit it’s a bit impersonal.” All men go through a bit of this. They get something like cold feet. It always goes away though. On the day of the wedding, he won’t have a single doubt in his mind. And neither will I. 

“I suppose some could see it that way. But I would say that we’re the lucky ones. All of the hard work is done, out of the question,” I state.

“Yes, but… it just seems like you may be a bit of a romantic and I would hate for this to seem…”

“I can still be a hopeless romantic while enjoying the perks of an arranged marriage.” As soon as the sentence escaped my upturned lips, I saw his eyes, carefully dot to either side of us. Those damn cold feet. From the glimmer in his eyes, you would almost think that he was embarrassed. But his smile soon returns to him.

“The duality of man,” he sighs, “You are indeed a modern woman.”

We continue walking in silence. 

He opens his mouth with words, once again, taking a few moments to escape it. 

“There’s the zoo cafe.”

“So it is,” I say in excitement. 

“Can I treat you to a snack? A coffee, perhaps?”

We lean against the fence of an enclosure, sipping our coffees. He is, indeed, the type of man who would treat his family right. I can see it now. Two kids. White picket fence. And maybe even a dog. He would come in from work every day and we would swap stories about what we did. Which co-worker pissed us off. What herb the grocery store ran out of. True happiness. He takes a long, long sip from his cup, and opens his mouth. This time, he doesn’t waste any time with the words. 

“Do you ever wonder if animals ever think about what life was like before? In the wild.”

“What do you mean?” I ask.

“The things they would experience. Hunting for their own food. Going wherever they please. Not having to live on a schedule. Not that of the zoo’s anyway,” he explains.

“Well, I think sometimes, most times, a little order is needed. Even if they don’t know it yet. I mean, think about it. They’re fed and cared for. And every day, hundreds of people gaze at them, wide-eyed, admiring how beautiful they all are,” I say.

“That’s a way of looking at it.” He lets out a weak giggle.

“Sure, they may have had lives before, but… they’re better now. A pleasant life of order and contentment.”

“In cages. A pleasant life in cages,” he quickly remarks. But I corrected him.

“Enclosures.”  

“Behind bars, alone,” he declares

“Look at how much space they have. It’s like their own little world,” I plead.

“It’s like a whole world outside of those cages too. It is a whole world.” 

“I- I suppose.”

“A big world. It’s a big big world.” I’ve never seen this look in his eyes before. I- I must say, it’s not my favorite. Those goddamn cold feet. I attempt to laugh as I say,

“New York city is a delight, isn’t it?”

“It’s a whole big world, and there’s so much to see. And I think sometimes, the animals have trouble seeing it with the bars in the way,” I corrected him one last time.

“The enclosures.”

“Yeah. The enclosures.”

–

Nathan is a young Canadian writer who primarily focuses on poetry, short stories, and screenplays. At age 16, he published his first poetry book, The Proposition of Disaster. Nathan is also very involved in the performing and visual arts, passions that he would like to build into a career.