A Hollow Inside the Shell

I shuffled indoors through the bottom doorway crack, my limbs heavy from the park fountain. In the corner by the tall radiator, an empty spiral conch shell lay upright on the rug, its flared porcelain lip gleaming in the dusk. I tilted forward slowly and brought my gaping mouth flush against its curved, ridged opening. A drowsy, slow rumble rolled from my chest into its twisting pink throat. The spiral caught the vibration instantly, smoothing the pitch into an oceanic, muffled tide that hummed back through my empty belly. I anchored my webbed flippers into the carpet and stayed still, letting the sea sound tuck me in.