(no subject)
eh, the writing's pretty dry.
Neither of them had been fishing before except at a carnival in Japan. Gorged on roasted squid and having more than a little sake in them they each took turns trying to scoop goldfish into ceramic rice bowls. The paper hoops kept tearing in the water. In broken Japanese they argued the game was rigged. The booth owner kept chopping the air with her hand as she brought it down into the other one, iie! iie! Danny like a diver plunged his hand into the tank, the water reaching his elbow, and pulled out a fish thrashing in between his fingers. He shook it in her face, baggu! baggu!
The fish died a week later but they left out that part whenever they told the story. Neither of them had ever been to the beach although they’d seen it from airplane windows and seen the shorelines at a distance where they could smell the salt. That morning on a whim they left the house and purchased a tackle box, lures, fishing poles, a knife, nets, a club and new hats, in that very order. They arrived at the beach and stepped out of the car, wearing the hats with the five dollar price tag dangling off the brims, and pulled out the equipment and walked to the end of the dock.
She hooked the lures and positioned the poles while he arranged the nets and the club. The tendons in their thin arms tensed as they pulled back the fishing poles and flicked them out into the sea. They slipped off their shoes and socks and let their pale feet dangle over the edge of the dock. The sea was big and the sun was hot. He took out the new knife and a mango he’d brought and he sliced the fruit in half and scored it. He gave one half to her and the other half he ate.
She kept pulling at her hair and letting the loose strands drop into the water. Down below their empty mango shells bumped against the dock’s beams. She squinted into the horizon as the sun began to dim. They both yawned and leaned back on the dock, the wooden planks pressing against their broads backs, their feet still swinging in the air, their poles still swaying, swaying in between their inner thighs.
It was almost dark when he finally felt a tug. He sat up and reeled it in easily. It shot out of the water and whipped crazily around in the air with unnecessary force. She rushed to get the net and she held it out for him to drop a scrawny dull crab they eyed in the sunset. She laid the net on the dock and reached for the club. He gripped it white-knuckled as it skittered towards his toe and it gave a sharp crack when he hit it.
They kicked it back into the sea. The juice from the mango was sticky on their lips and they were hungry. They gathered all their things still dry with the price tags hanging off of them, the price tags swaying as they walked back to their car and shoved them into the trunk. At a burger joint on the offside of the high way they trashed their hats and later told people they got a catch they let go.
Neither of them had been fishing before except at a carnival in Japan. Gorged on roasted squid and having more than a little sake in them they each took turns trying to scoop goldfish into ceramic rice bowls. The paper hoops kept tearing in the water. In broken Japanese they argued the game was rigged. The booth owner kept chopping the air with her hand as she brought it down into the other one, iie! iie! Danny like a diver plunged his hand into the tank, the water reaching his elbow, and pulled out a fish thrashing in between his fingers. He shook it in her face, baggu! baggu!
The fish died a week later but they left out that part whenever they told the story. Neither of them had ever been to the beach although they’d seen it from airplane windows and seen the shorelines at a distance where they could smell the salt. That morning on a whim they left the house and purchased a tackle box, lures, fishing poles, a knife, nets, a club and new hats, in that very order. They arrived at the beach and stepped out of the car, wearing the hats with the five dollar price tag dangling off the brims, and pulled out the equipment and walked to the end of the dock.
She hooked the lures and positioned the poles while he arranged the nets and the club. The tendons in their thin arms tensed as they pulled back the fishing poles and flicked them out into the sea. They slipped off their shoes and socks and let their pale feet dangle over the edge of the dock. The sea was big and the sun was hot. He took out the new knife and a mango he’d brought and he sliced the fruit in half and scored it. He gave one half to her and the other half he ate.
She kept pulling at her hair and letting the loose strands drop into the water. Down below their empty mango shells bumped against the dock’s beams. She squinted into the horizon as the sun began to dim. They both yawned and leaned back on the dock, the wooden planks pressing against their broads backs, their feet still swinging in the air, their poles still swaying, swaying in between their inner thighs.
It was almost dark when he finally felt a tug. He sat up and reeled it in easily. It shot out of the water and whipped crazily around in the air with unnecessary force. She rushed to get the net and she held it out for him to drop a scrawny dull crab they eyed in the sunset. She laid the net on the dock and reached for the club. He gripped it white-knuckled as it skittered towards his toe and it gave a sharp crack when he hit it.
They kicked it back into the sea. The juice from the mango was sticky on their lips and they were hungry. They gathered all their things still dry with the price tags hanging off of them, the price tags swaying as they walked back to their car and shoved them into the trunk. At a burger joint on the offside of the high way they trashed their hats and later told people they got a catch they let go.