Poor woebegone wobbegong; Orectolobus something; small, dragon-faced shark. Name misspelled, waiting to be sold for approximately three hundred dollars. But who knows if this bothers you? As far as I can tell, your real annoyance is the blue-spotted stingrays in your tank who glide over you, rest on top of you, their cartoon faces scowling. The whole store seems desperate and stagnant, all the little bodies in Spartan aquariums. The bamboo sharks, reclining like Siamese cats, shiny and lean. The banded snake eels, a mess of ribbons. The fetal, blank-eyed axolotls. The baby sturgeons that could shred fingers with their spines of spines. The seahorses twirled around like twigs. Meanwhile you—grumpily, but with surprising grace—flow away from the stingrays again, your white spots a constellation against your sand-colored skin.