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The Shark
My best friend, Jeb- the healer, invited me to go for a walk along the beach - the sand gripping my feet, the sky full of moon. In the distance, the neck of the pier jutting out, resting calmly on the Atlantic.
We made small talk. I told him about my plans for graduate school, told him that I could see myself here. I said, the air makes my skin feel wet. He told me about the affairs - a brunette, with hair that smelled like coconut. She needed a mole removed, then left her number. Some little thing with stilts for legs. Swine flu, she worried. Those stilts wrapped around him just fine, I guess.
The pier sounded as if it were haunted - the groan of old plywood. A sign displayed, NO CATCHING SHARKS- CATCH & RELEASE ONLY.
I said, what about my sister?
At the edge of the pier, Jeb whispered, I want you to tell her. I’m leaving town tomorrow and I want you to be the one to tell her. It’ll be easier for her, that way.
A man next to us caught one - a baby shark. He smelled of dead fish and had blood on his hands. He gripped the pup and said the skin is called, shagreen- to the touch it was abrasive, like pumice. The pup wagged in every direction, giving us a grimace stare. Blood ran down the neck where the hook remained, he yanked it out and let it go.
I told her.
