Betty and Idaho mingle into each other at a cocktail party. A fish cocktail party. Because they’re fish.
“I’m working on a new fiction,” Betty says casually. “Kind of a metaphysical adventure.”
Idaho blinks, which is how fish nod. “Yeah? What’s the premise?”
Betty needs little prodding. “Well, you know the Ick? Its scientific name actually depends on the use of ours. Ichthyophthirius. Ichthyo. See? It’s like–our worst fear is only an extension of ourselves.”
Idaho blinks again, impressed.
“Just something I came up with a while back.” Betty sips her fish-margarita. “Fresh, huh?”
“Way fresh,” says Idaho.