(Art by spoon+fork.)
The only reason Mrs. Angrywall came fishing with me was because I promised her we would throw all the fish back, even the ones good enough for keepers.
We went out on a cloudy Monday afternoon to Island Beach State Park, pretty close to where I had hooked the squirrel. When I was a kid, it seemed to take forever to bike there. Now it was just a 30-minute walk. Usually the best time to catch kingfish was dawn or dusk, but when it’s overcast or storming, they bite all day.
I bought some sandworms from a bait shack and had selected the two most innocent-looking hooks. I bet those hooks couldn’t pierce the rough patch on my right heel.
Now I was really glad I hadn’t asked Howard to go fishing. I had enough of his ass, six days a week. But I hadn’t had enough of Mrs. Angrywall’s ass.
There’s something very innocent about walking with a woman when you’re each holding a fishing rod, even when you think she’s more attractive every time you see her. What hidden intentions could you have? You have someplace to go and your purpose is clear: fishing.
It’s not like you’re sitting in a bar, spinning a wet coaster on its edge and wondering how many more drinks it’s going to take.
Mrs. Angrywall had found the center of balance on the rod and carried it daintily, as if about to twirl it like a baton.