Genus Octopoda by Mike DiChristina

Anne-Marie squinted as she read the sign next to the octopus tank at Sea World. “Convergent evolution,” she said. Jimmy rapped the aquarium glass, but the pink octopus remained motionless, tucked in its cave, its unblinking eye catatonic. “We evolved on different paths. Humans and octopuses. Octopi?” said Anne-Marie. “Octopussy?” said Jimmy. He slipped his hand into the back pocket of her cargo shorts. Anne-Marie said, “We both have eyes. Evolution found a different way in each case.” Jimmy stood behind Anne-Marie, wrapping his arms around her waist. He pressed into her sun-warmed body, nibbling her ear, tasting lotion. He slipped his hands into her front-facing fanny pack. “Wow,” he said. Anne-Marie continued reading. “Eyes have different anatomy, same result: sight. Like bat wings versus bird wings. Different anatomy, same result: flight,” she said. “A poem,” he said. “The octopus did us one better, though,” she said, “No blind spot.” He covered her eyes with his hands. “We have a blind spot?” “Back of the eye. Where the optic nerve enters the retina.” Anne-Marie ducked away and flip-flopped toward the stingray tank. “I never saw any blind spot,” Jimmy said, following her. “Your brain fills in the blanks. They have cool experiments that prove it,” she said. He leaned over the railing and scratched a baby stingray’s back. “Where next?” she said. “Squid?” he said. Anne-Marie said, “Or we could go back to the hotel and make our own eight-legged monster.” “I hadn’t thought of that,” said Jimmy.

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