Sketch of Person: "When Shark Necklaces Attack"

If you were wondering, there are twenty-six different types of shark tooth necklace straps at the Baltimore Aquarium gift shop. Of those twenty-six different necklace straps, each shark tooth pendant is completely unique—each its own shade of cream. The possibilities are endless—so why I convinced my boyfriend (who just so happens to tap his foot twice on the first step to a bus before taking the next step, and just so happens to sort through Q-tips to find the “right” ones and throw away the “bad” ones) to pick out the necklace he likes the most is now appearing on the next episode of Unsolved Mysteries. He had to carefully inspect each necklace by picking it up by the clasp, making sure it worked, and pinching the shark tooth in-between his thumb and pointer finger to see how it would score on the rock hardness scale. He had to see if the color had any flaws by bringing it within two inches of his eyes. Next, he had to try it on, to make certain the length of the strap as well as the size of the tooth fit appropriately to his body type.

“Should I really go with the leather strap?” He quizzed me at least twenty times.

Even if he went with the leather strap, “Should I go with the light beige or deep brown or this one that looks like amber? Here, Liz, hold these.”

I was instructed to make three different piles: The “Yes,” “Maybe,” and “No” pile. In the “Yes” pile I held the ones that he wrapped around his neck and were approved by glancing at a nearby mirrored wall. As he gazed at his new look, he smiled then posed with varying facial expressions—seeing if this necklace would fit his many moods. The “Maybe” pile consisted of the pendants that were too perfect to reject, but the strap was definitely the wrong shade of brown. The “No” pile did not even get the chance to go past the first step of inspection. The piles grew larger, and my hands grew heavy.

“Liz!” He spoke my name as if I was his mother. “Liz, did you see these!” He moved to the next wall—the next wall—that stood at least seven feet tall. From top to bottom, it was full of seashell and beaded necklaces. He ran his finger through the rainbow of tiny fragmented seashells on a string. The movement caused a sweet chiming noise, but to me, it sounded like the Jaws theme song.

Before he could slide a necklace off the racks, I pushed my way between him and the display.

“This one! This one! This one is so you,” I lied, but just as I took it closer to the register, Keaton replied, “Oh, nevermind. Guys don’t really wear necklaces anymore. Let’s go look at the exhibits.”