The Dead Girls

He holds it up to be inspected.  Slick, a silvery body.  An armor of triangular scales.  And two big eyes, black and glassy.

Dead eyes.

“This one’s for you, Pop,” he says, gazing into its blank stare.  “Hope you got to see me land it.”

Its mouth is still gasping in suffocation, but for the most part it’s dead.  Reaching through its lips, he removes the hook and accidentally rips a section of gills out.  He’s usually a pro at de-hooking, but his hands feel unsteady.  Had too much to drink, not to mention one hell of a day.

He opens the cooler, laying the fish in the melted ice.  Shuts it.  A little arctic grave for it.  Later he’ll chop off its head and tail, gut it, descale it.  Cook it up with some lemon and a pat of butter.

But that’s later, once he gets home.  Right now he’s significantly drunk and needs to get off this lake.  Needs to get back to his jeep, sober up a bit before driving out of here.





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