To Catch A Fish
By ZLizabeth
Disclaimer: Quote is by Willard Spencer.
"The biggest fish I ever caught was the one that got away."
There was something about standing in shallow water that made things come back to him. The hands of the sea lapping at his ankles stirred up memories. Old memories. Memories that he knew existed, but always forgot about.
There was something about the dull green sea, and the tiny shards of rock and shell that pinched his feet, that made him nostalgic for the Barbados. He liked it there. He liked crystal, and he liked white sand, and he liked the smell of salt and coconuts at the beach. He always knew that if he ever were to fall in love, the girl he loved would be a vision. Not just pretty, but garbed in white. The pure white of the sand, or the dulled white of the houses that lined the shore. She would smell like coconuts, and her kisses would be salty.
He never had fallen in love. He came close to it, once or twice, but he had never found the perfect girl. He would have been cuffed on the head had he confessed his inaccessible lust for perfection. And what kind of idiot with any sense would buy a crystal ring for his girl? Diamonds were forever. He had settled on girls that were far from right, because he knew that a girl made of Coconuts didn't exist.
The other regulars at Breezy Point had visions of perfection, too. The single and animal knew the details of her body down to circumference of her fingers. The romantic would take hours to describe her eyes, the smell of the shampoo that lived in her shower. The engaged always pretended that they had found perfection. Some of them had. Those whose eyes clouded over when they spoke of her had found it. The ones that could still tell you what color her hair was while swigging beer had settled for something that fell below their desire. The taste of alcohol held vividness for every man, and the ones who could taste it while they sampled love still had room left for an unquenched need.
He would listen until their tongues went dry. They had advice for him. The starstruck would always tell him to wait. Biding time was worth it. The sensible told him that they had found their love by holding on and not letting her slip away. He listened to both and said he understood. The married who had found the flawless could crow about the goddamn nags, or they could say that having a soulmate with a ring on her finger was bliss.
He was a friend to all of them. He had stories, too. He could tell them whatever they wanted to hear. He had told some more than others, and they would ask to hear things over and over again. There were only two genres they would hear, though. Fish and women.
He didn't separate them. Fishing had become his replacement. He would tell them how he seduced a girl on the table of a closed café. They would hoot and laugh and tease him. He would tell them about the time he had a thirty-two pounder alongside him when it nicked his line and got away with his best lure. They would curse his line, tell him about the victories they'd had, the strategies. Nothing could launch memories like the story of a lost fish. They all had stories about the time they had Old Mike of Wilson's Lake at their fingertips, only to lose him.
One thing all fishermen share is the common knowledge that the biggest fish you'll ever catch will be the one that gets away.
***I will not beg for reviews. I have my pride.
By ZLizabeth
Disclaimer: Quote is by Willard Spencer.
"The biggest fish I ever caught was the one that got away."
There was something about standing in shallow water that made things come back to him. The hands of the sea lapping at his ankles stirred up memories. Old memories. Memories that he knew existed, but always forgot about.
There was something about the dull green sea, and the tiny shards of rock and shell that pinched his feet, that made him nostalgic for the Barbados. He liked it there. He liked crystal, and he liked white sand, and he liked the smell of salt and coconuts at the beach. He always knew that if he ever were to fall in love, the girl he loved would be a vision. Not just pretty, but garbed in white. The pure white of the sand, or the dulled white of the houses that lined the shore. She would smell like coconuts, and her kisses would be salty.
He never had fallen in love. He came close to it, once or twice, but he had never found the perfect girl. He would have been cuffed on the head had he confessed his inaccessible lust for perfection. And what kind of idiot with any sense would buy a crystal ring for his girl? Diamonds were forever. He had settled on girls that were far from right, because he knew that a girl made of Coconuts didn't exist.
The other regulars at Breezy Point had visions of perfection, too. The single and animal knew the details of her body down to circumference of her fingers. The romantic would take hours to describe her eyes, the smell of the shampoo that lived in her shower. The engaged always pretended that they had found perfection. Some of them had. Those whose eyes clouded over when they spoke of her had found it. The ones that could still tell you what color her hair was while swigging beer had settled for something that fell below their desire. The taste of alcohol held vividness for every man, and the ones who could taste it while they sampled love still had room left for an unquenched need.
He would listen until their tongues went dry. They had advice for him. The starstruck would always tell him to wait. Biding time was worth it. The sensible told him that they had found their love by holding on and not letting her slip away. He listened to both and said he understood. The married who had found the flawless could crow about the goddamn nags, or they could say that having a soulmate with a ring on her finger was bliss.
He was a friend to all of them. He had stories, too. He could tell them whatever they wanted to hear. He had told some more than others, and they would ask to hear things over and over again. There were only two genres they would hear, though. Fish and women.
He didn't separate them. Fishing had become his replacement. He would tell them how he seduced a girl on the table of a closed café. They would hoot and laugh and tease him. He would tell them about the time he had a thirty-two pounder alongside him when it nicked his line and got away with his best lure. They would curse his line, tell him about the victories they'd had, the strategies. Nothing could launch memories like the story of a lost fish. They all had stories about the time they had Old Mike of Wilson's Lake at their fingertips, only to lose him.
One thing all fishermen share is the common knowledge that the biggest fish you'll ever catch will be the one that gets away.
***I will not beg for reviews. I have my pride.