When he gets home, he slides you into a goldfish bowl. You think there’s no way you can fit, what with the tail and fronds, but the water accommodates like a glove.
Morning and evening, he shakes a plastic tub. The food falls in a drift of salty confetti. You flick your clever tongue and catch each flake. You grow long and sleek. He has to move you into the sink; by the end of the week, the bath.
He feeds you from a tin of sardines. Holds out a fork, says: here comes the aeroplane. When your lips close around the tines, you taste sweat on his fingers. You eat, and grow. Your tentacles climb the tiles around the tub. You pool the floor with slime.
At night, you rest your head upon his knee. He combs your hair and whiskers, smoothes the creases from your frills where they have wedged against the sides of the bath. You wrap your tongue around him, squeeze till he gasps. You watch him gazing in wonder at the marks you leave. His skin is parched, his tongue small and lacking in muscle.