Fisherman
by Roderick D. Turner
“Never was much of a fisherman,” I say.
“Took me years just to get used to the rolling of the boat.” I give her
my best sheepish grin.
“It’s not exactly a sexy job anyway,” she says. Smiles, sweetly.
Innocence, or at least ignorance, in that smile. Dress hugging her body
tight, sleek form that cries out to be touched. “What do you do now?”
Scottish League Football is on the telly, Rangers taking it to Airdrie
big time. I’m behind on the standings, but Rangers is looking good.
“Gardening,” I say, returning the smile. “Water features, of a sort.
Never short of work.”
She looks puzzled. “Really?” she says at last. “Can’t say I’ve seen too
many fountains or waterfalls in people’s gardens in town.” But I can
see in her eyes that she’s already lost interest, her gaze glazing
over. First sign the wine and I are really affecting her.
“Not here on the coast,” I say. “But let’s not talk about my work. How
about another drink?”
“You bet,” she says. “You certainly know your wines. This is the best
I’ve ever tasted.”
“Connections,” I say. Stand up slowly, so she can watch as I move.
Always the best hook. And from her body language, I can see she’s
already caught. “Back in a tick.”
The bartender is quick, but I have enough time to see her eyeing me as
I wait. When I weave the crowd back to the table, she’s drinking in
every nuance. Sucks back a good third of the glass as soon as I put it
in front of her. Time to reel her in.
“Starry night tonight,” I say. Knock back half my pint, to show her I’m
with her. “Crisp and clear. Warmest night of the year too, I’d say.”
Take her hand in mine. “Let’s go for a walk on the beach. Watch the
waves roll in. Just the two of us.”
Her eyes light up. “I’d love that,” she says. Takes another sip, the
glass almost empty again. “The beach is so beautiful under the stars.”
I pull her gently up, lead her out to the street. This little fishing
village is so like the one I was born and raised in, I feel almost
home. Almost. One block and we’re down at the tiny sheltered harbor.
Another, and we’re walking on sand. We take off our shoes, wade as we
walk. I fight the urge, letting it whet my passion, waiting. Nearly a
mile, we walk, before she pulls me down onto the sand. Smiling. She
takes me, as it has to be, to the sound of surf. We lie, peaceful,
soaking up the stars. Then, naked, we walk into the bay hand-in-hand.
My latest bride of the sea dons her new seal skin, for the first time,
as I slip back into mine. Selkie and Silkie, together. We swim off
under the moonlight.
I will be ashore in human form again in three months. Fishing.
THE END
© 2015 Roderick D. Turner
Roderick D. Turner is a regular around Aphelion, regularly posting and
participating in our flash contest.
E-mail: Roderick D. Turner
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