This is it: twenty years is a long time, it’s natural that in the end the energy dissipates and there’s nothing left: no noise, heat or energy, just two self-absorbed masses of cells.
Lighting another fag and standing Monica goes in the bedroom, shuts the door. Hook pours himself another whiskey. Ken and Deirdre gulp grimly, swimming around in their de-oxygenated sludge. No-one’s fed them for days – despite being top of every shopping list nailed to the fridge everyone forgets to buy fish food because the pet shop is two blocks out of the way.
Hook looks in the fridge, finds some slices of ham, pulls off a few lumps and drops them into the tank. Ken and Deirdre tear off sections and gulp bits down, spit them out, gulp them down again. Then he gets bored pulling off bits and throws whole slices in the water; the fish swim over and though them, tearing holes in the meaty walls, Hook watching, mesmerised.
After a few minutes Hook tears himself away from the fish’s revolting mouths, their awful desperation. On an impulse he checks the internet and discovers fish do need their sleep after all; they’ve had the lamp on 24/7 for ages, no wonder they look so frazzled. Hook turns it off, feeling benevolent.