Thick glasses that seem too opaque to be real obscure his squinty, tired eyes. His wrinkled white button-down shirt is splattered with the traces of salt water, sweat, and dissatisfaction.
His ill-fitting khaki pants hug his too-big belly, distended with the overconsumption of noodles, dim sum, and Ylang-Ylang. Dark wet patches at countertop height give away his profession and indicate how recently he assisted his last customer.
As he operates his dingy cash register, greedily eyeing the green that is passing between his less pigmented customers and himself, he grins widely and superficially. His toad-like visage enhanced, he morphs into some far more complex than a fish store owner slash operator.
Filling transparent plastic bags with water, life, and air, and sealing them with a twisty-tie and placing them within more plastic bags, he is a machine - well oiled and an accustomed hand at his unusual profession. Ethics and origins aside, he is only concerned with making the sale.
You buy it, your problem if you break it. No refunds, no exceptions. Something he’s carried with him across both hemispheres.
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