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I t's noon at the city aquarium and the fish are agitated. The lights, which shone dimly on their sleek bodies all morning, have been gradually ramped up to the highest wattage. The fish can see the shapes of people, small and big, congregating near their tanks. Cued by the lights and the observers, they furl and unfurl their fins.

"To tell if a fish is overweight, look at its dorsal area." The fishkeeper blithely assumes the onlookers know the meaning of 'dorsal.' "If it looks like a well-stuffed cushion, such as how Big Daddy Piranha looks here, that means they are overindulging." The fishkeeper throws in some cut up raw herring. There is a collective intake of breath as the piranha disposes of the food. Someone whispers, "he makes my vacuum look slow." The fishkeeper continues, "notice how he beats everyone else to the food? The piranha razor through their meat at very fast speeds." The beta piranha swim underneath Big Daddy, grabbing any morsel that falls from his mouth.

"Fis! Fis!" shouts a little boy. His chubby fingers point, and he turns to make sure Daddy is just as eagerly watching the fish as he is. Daddy has been eyeing the exposed midriff of a tall teen, whose lip is decoratively pierced and whose expression suggests she has a herniated lumbar disk. Or is there under sufferance.

The little boy's father tears his eyes away from the immature curves and laughs quietly, uncomfortably. "Yeah, Trevor. Piranha fish." Each sea creature in the waters of this aquarium - and it is a big aquarium - has elicited the same comment from the boy. Fis! The father is responding from between gritted teeth. One of the circles of Hell contains an infinite afternoon with a little child of limited conversational skills. The father dreamily curls his fingers into a fist.

This is my cue. I step in with a whispered comment like, "aw, such a cute little lad" followed up with an observation, "doesn't that little turned-up nose look vulnerable, next to the piranha's teeth?" This gets the father's attention. It is a promising opening, touching ever so lightly on Bad Things That Might Happen to a special little person. But it is Sunday afternoon at the city aquarium, a place filled with happy families and flirting couples and dazed tourists. Bad Things don't happen here, no.

The father's response will be either child-directed, where he tells the child to come take Daddy's hand, let's go to the sharks, or it will be adult-directed. Something for me. I've been watching this duo ever since the parking lot; I'm pretty sure the father will throw a scrap my way. He might nod, he might even say something a little daring: "Yeah, I wonder how many other snotty fingers have touched that glass today." I smile at the father, briefly, possibly even laugh very mildly at his response, if it's a little outré. Then I avert my gaze and focus on the child.

It's as old as glaciers, this beginning. The direct eye contact, then the quickly averted glance. As if I, the woman, dare not show her attraction to this man too openly.

Next, I guess the age of the child. The rule here is to state an age beyond what you really think the child to be. This child, for example, is dressed in boy's clothes and has rudimentary nouns but cannot string words together well enough for a sentence. That means he is likely two. So I will say, "hmmm ... let me guess ... three?" The father will proudly correct me and then I will chuckle shyly at my mistake and say no wonder - the boy is so big or so well coordinated for his age. If it's a girl, I remark on how her language or expressiveness is so advanced. You can almost hear the father's chest swell.

By now little Trevor (I saw the tag poking out of his jacket) will be watching us as keenly as a match at Wimbledon. I have suddenly become The Competition. I am siphoning Daddy's attention away, and that, Trevor senses, is a disaster in the making. Unless, of course, I can reach out to Trevor, make some kind of contact to reassure him that he's not about to lose half of Daddy's notice; he is instead about to double his allotment of adult attention. "Hi, Trevor," I say in my high-pitched happy-gal voice, "do you like looking at FISH?"

Trevor nods, beaming at me.

"Great!" I say. I break off the conversation and go to another fish-tank. Giving them both, of course, a smile and a nod in the parting. This break-off step is just as important as the averted gaze. I had not been aware of its importance for the longest time. It's important to halt the conversation to signal that I'm not some chatty mothering type. I break away from the man, as if there is something faintly undesirable. He's a Sunday father, I am betting; he and his partner have called it quits and now there's a big stamp on his forehead. Rejected. It's a passing conversation with a stranger, an ugly stranger at that, the man will tell himself. Whew. Glad not to have to look at her anymore, he might be thinking. And yet, the tables have been turned.

In the semi-darkness of the aquarium, crowds of people come and go like flotsam drifting through tunnels. Sometimes they pile up in a corner, such as the group that is watching the fishkeeper at the tank with the puffer fish. They are laughing at how the puffer eats. It pulls in the food, bite-bite, then shoots it partway out of its mouth, bite-bite, sucks it back in, bite-bite, and so on. Of course the herring is dead, but sometimes I wonder how a live fish would feel when it is being eaten by the puffer this way.

I stand fairly close to a tank, and because of the low lighting, Trevor's dad does not notice I am watching him. He stands near the seahorses, reading the information plaque that describes how the males incubate the eggs - the female deposits them with him and seals up the pouch. The seahorse's prehensile tail holds the stalk of a sea plant and he drifts upwards, like a leaf on the plant. Trevor is pointing and calling "fis" again. His dad is reading and slowly shaking his head. The male incubating the babies gets 'em every time. He stares closely at the seahorse. Commiserating, I will guess, or maybe feeling some solidarity with Single Fathers Everywhere ...!

It's tempting to imagine how this guy ended up as a Sunday father. Oh yeah, he's single. I watched him drive up in a sleek little two-door and have a big struggle getting Trevor unbuckled from the car seat. Obviously out of practice. There was no stroller, either - maybe it was too big to fit in the trunk, or maybe it just didn't occur to him that a two year old shouldn't be on his feet for the full aquarium tour. Or maybe Trevor's daddy doesn't know how to set up a folding stroller. I wonder, were things over before Trevor was born, or was it after his arrival that they split? Maybe Trevor's mom could only focus on "one man" she said, "my little man, that is." Or maybe their sex life fell from "lusty" to "zero" seemingly overnight and Trevor's dad took it personally. An ultimatum was issued, possibly by him, possibly to him.

I wait for them beside the clownfish tank. These fish also get a good reaction. Trevor loves the bright colours, including the large eye spot. The adults see the homely little fish, small-eyed, with a sad little mouth, lurking under the gaudy mask. "The clown is the saddest guy in the rodeo," I mutter to Trevor's dad while we gaze.

"Ain't that the truth," whispers Trevor's dad.

You see? He's had a few minutes to reflect on the nice lady who came and chatted, albeit briefly. He's had a chance to think that, while I might not be much to look at, it is dark in here after all and he is rather starved for female companionship lately.

"Fis! Fis!" Trevor punctuates the moment with a new summons. He has spotted the large tank, where the schools of blue mao-mao and trevally are swimming together. He pulls his daddy's hand.

I shrug. Those fish are a dime a dozen. "I was on my way to the canteen," I say. I pause and add, "Trevor is sure going to remember this visit."

It's a sincerely meant comment, and I picture the father is glowing with it right now. See, he can say to his ex, I actually go out and DO something with the kid, not lie around on the sofa all day in a stained tracksuit like some people do. Trevor will go home and will be mercifully spent; he will be tired and sleep like a well-run sheepdog. "Remember." Ah, yes. The Sunday father craves this acknowledgement, that despite Trevor's whining and pestering, and his disgust and irritation, they are creating a moment together. A shared happy memory.

"Hi, how's Octavia?" I ask the fishkeeper at the octopus tank near the canteen.

"Poorly again, I'm afraid," says the keeper, studying her bloated form. The fishkeeper has put her inside a cage held down by weights. He told me she seemed a little bored and had begun playing with the bubbler - that pipe that keeps the water oxygenated. When an octopus gets bubbles in its digestive pouch it usually expels them unaided, but Octavia is young and maybe a little stupid and now the keeper will have to manually help her expel. I make my way to the corner table at the canteen and order my regular cuppa. I will be midway through my coffee and the cryptic crossword when who will appear in the line-up but Trevor and his dad. He is studying the posted menu but surreptitiously looking for me. He's had time to consider. A friendly female, one who likes his little kid. That's a big plus right there. He's still a little shell-shocked at how his street value on the singles scene has plummeted, now that there's a kid and an ex -"complications." She's no looker, he is likely thinking to himself, but you know what? Neither is he. He rubs his flabby gut. His ex wasn't the only one turning to comfort food when the going got tough, I'll bet. Although maybe this guy has always eaten poorly; his acne scars are, like mine, still visible.

I watch him as he comes away from the cafeteria line. He is holding a tray with one hand and the arm of a rambunctious little boy with the other. He is looking straight at my table, no doubt wishing that I would rush over and either take the hot coffee or the little boy. I don't lift a finger. I am not a servant, anticipating his movement across the crowded canteen area. I am not a doormat, begging to be used. It's all about control, you see. I wait until he is standing in front of me, asking politely if they could join me.

I look at him blankly for three seconds. "Oh sure," I say.

He introduces himself and I do too. We have an enjoyable coffee break together, Clayton and I, as we jolly along Trevor with his cookies and juice. Could Clayton help me with any of the clues, I ask, passing the newspaper to him. I always hope; I am always disappointed. But maybe one day I will find a dad who's keen on the cryptic. Clayton and I trade a few comments on the exhibits. Some Sunday fathers complain bitterly about the cost of admission and the menu prices. You might think it's a turn-off - in fact, I used to take it as a very bad sign on a date - but these days I'm glad to hear the guy's a miser because it means we are unlikely to cross paths in the aquarium again.

Trevor is getting tired. I can tell because he laughs hysterically at a silly face I make. Then he gets clingy. Clayton picks him up and tries to cuddle him as he did when Trevor was younger, but Trevor prides himself on being a big boy now and gets annoyed. That's the problem with being a Sunday father: you are always behind in their stages.

"Looks like Trevor needs a nap now," I say. "Is that what he normally does at this time?" It's important to put this in a really tentative way. After all, who am I to tell this strapping young man how to comfort his child? It's a question calculated to bring about a little desperation - what parent would try to put down any but the youngest child for a nap in a public area? - and possibly a halting admission from the Sunday father that, actually, he's not too sure what schedule the kid is on; you see, he's just got him for a day or two ... Separated, eh? Quel domage. In earlier times I used to gush sympathy, even trade stories about the bizarreness of hostilities or simply how bitter it felt, to be cast aside. That's a mistake, I found out. Oh, I still show some sympathy for the guy, and usually I can feign astonishment that someone would walk away from such a pearl as him. But I don't trade war stories anymore; I've grown beyond that.

But here we sit, Clayton and I and fussy Trevor. Clayton is watching me, thinking that this is where I will make some excuse to be on my way, leaving him with a snotty wriggling worm on his lap. And here he was, just ready to launch into a thumbnail sketch of why he knew his ex wasn't The One ... but he can't speak, Trevor is kicking the table. I say, "maybe he could do with some fresh air" and I offer to show them the excellent playground that's really close by. Or maybe it's the more distant playground or, if the weather is bad, an indoor playground that I know of. The Sunday father accepts with alacrity, unless his visitation order stipulates an early drop-off time. Trevor loves playgrounds but Clayton seldom takes him for more than a half-hour. It is mind-numbing, no matter what game they play. Conversation between adults in a playground would preserve the sanity, but Clayton is usually frozen out.

We bundle out of the city aquarium and squeeze into Clayton's two-door. At the playground there's plenty of parking and Trevor is hushed with anticipation as we pull into a spot. Then, like a shot he is running off to play on the shiny bouncy turtles that I promised him live in this playground. Live, that is, in a relative sense.

We watch Trevor to make sure he can straddle the turtle. We wave at him to make sure he knows we are watching, that we are always right there. I begin to slowly walk toward the old play structure. It's shaped like a treehouse, well, a municipal version of a treehouse that has perfectly square corners and industrial bolts. Heavy-duty, not dangerous - designed by a committee, after all - but a little hidden away. Turning to Clayton I will say something to continue the earlier adult bent of our conversation. I'll ask him if the separation has been pretty rough. On his face I see relief and frustration. Relief, because he is not living under the heavy yoke of her condemnation - condemnation of his friends and his drinking and his slothful habits. Frustration because he pictured life on the outside would have more sex. Of course he says none of this directly.

Trevor is finished on the turtles and now is eyeing the sandbox. Guess what, I just happen to have saved my plastic spoon and cardboard cup from the canteen. Trevor starts digging away like a manic steamshovel.

"Hey Clayton," I say, "see that treehouse - why don't we climb it? We're still within eyesight of Trevor." From the treehouse we poke our heads out, looking down at the boy. Still engrossed in digging. When we're up there, looking down, but partially hidden, we grow silent. Now it could go one way or the other, you see.

Clayton might lightly brush my leg with the tips of his fingers. He would be in the middle of waving at Trevor, or maybe saying something inane like, "gee, a nice treehouse" - it would be something involving a gesture which is how it is his hand would be moving about so that it casually touches me. If I still stay friendly and pretend not to notice what he did, he will become bolder, perhaps placing his hot palm directly on one thigh, followed up with, say, his other hand right in my crotch.

Or, maybe, Clayton might be hands off. That would mean that I would have to "accidentally" brush against him and then be prepared to back off immediately if he moved well away from me. That's happened only once, though, before I knew how to read the signs better. Now I have perfected the choreography leading from the accidental brush to the hot hands in crotch.

You can guess how the rest of it goes. Fast. Like one of those little pop-guns, the kind that don't even scare a rabbit.

Afterwards, I climb down first, impeccably attired, calling out the child's name with concern in my voice. Usually Trevor or Stacey or Dimwitchamacallit has had enough of digging in the sand or swinging on the swings and is wondering where Daddy is. "Are you okay, Trev? Should we get Daddy? Where IS Daddy anyway? Did he forget all about you?" I ratchet up the tremolo in my voice. By now the child is shaken. Some might begin to cry. "Oh no-oo!" I wail and the quiet child realizes that hey, he CAN kick up a fuss when Daddy abandons him. The Sunday father, hearing this, leaps into action, buttoning, tucking, rezipping, undoing whatever disarray he has fallen into in the treehouse. He climbs back down, collects his progeny, hugely irritated at how the magic moment has ended.

Usually, there is no offer of a lift. I set off on my own quickly. Any suggestions to "see ya around some time" or "maybe get together again" are flatly declined. "Thanks, but I'm very busy these days." You know, the brush off. Not that it's usually stated, because once the suspense is over, once the Sunday father sees me again in daylight, and especially once he realizes how derelict he was in his duty of care to his child, that's the end. So be it.

If it's late, I head home after that. Make some tea, watch TV until I fall asleep. If it's still early though, I prefer to head back to the aquarium. I do enjoy the fishes there, you see. I visit the other tanks that might not have the same high profile as the piranha or the clownfish. And I can't leave without saying good-bye to the stonefish. Only the astute visitor notices the stonefish. Its tank looks empty but that's because the stonefish blends in so well with the rocks and dead coral. The stonefish is a lumpy ugly fish, virtually indistinguishable from a rock. If an unsuspecting swimmer steps on it, though, he can die. It's the most venomous fish of all. Even if the swimmer didn't get a full dose from one of the spiny vesicles on its back, he could get sick enough to develop an aversion to swimming near to coral ever again.