Woman

 

Gilbert’s chewing is all malice and mobility. It fills his face, stretches his lips to the side and about, his tongue bounces against the flesh that holds his mouth in place, June watches it search out flakes of fish and swallow. The movement animates his neck, all cords and bobbing apple. June eats her potatoes and peas. Stan, says Gilbert.

The plumber’s helper’s helper?

Let me finish, says Gilbert. He’s having a party, everyone’s invited.

I’ll wear my purple dress.

The one you made? The one with the uneven buttons and the gape above your lady bits?

I thought you liked the gape.

Maybe I do.

Besides, it’s altered. Closes perfectly now.

I said we couldn’t make it, says Gilbert.

Why?

We don’t need parties, not you and me. We’re too old. Parties are for young people.

How old’s Stan?

Hard to say, he wears his years well, fifty, maybe older.

We’re not that much older.

My parents never went to parties.

It might be nice, says June.

Nice? says Gilbert. The fish sits on the platter, mostly skeleton now, skeleton and head with an eye that pins June to her chair. Gilbert has fish on his chin, lodged in yesterday’s whiskers. The fork half buried by his raw red fist pounds at the last of his mashed potatoes, the smell of warm butter catches in the air. You’re not eating your fish, says Gilbert.

Well, says June, if you’ve already told him. The day is hot, the air pushes against her skin.  Gilbert's knife rattles against the plate as he balances a string of peas like small green beads on the blade. He slurps them. I thought you said he was a lovely man, she says.

No. I said he was alright. For a plumber’s helper’s helper, he’s alright. She swallows his prejudice with a mouthful of potato, it catches in her throat, a lump. She breathes through her nose as the clot slowly crumbles and slips down her gullet. If you’re not eating that fish, says Gilbert, I’ll have some.

 

The eye in the head of the skeleton fish winks at her and June sees the gape where the hook went in. She closes her eyes as Gilbert rummages around on her plate, sifting through the flesh she’s moved around and hidden beneath vegetables. Tonight, her fish is not for eating. June lays a napkin over the fish’s eye and wriggles in her chair, uneasy, her body no longer fits. She presses against the table and her skin itches against an unknown tide. It flakes and peels. Must you scratch? asks Gilbert, you're putting me off my food. Scratching, thinks June, will save me. But she pauses and lets her skin grow over.  It's dry but no longer scaly. It tightens and she senses a ripple, thinks she might glow. Gilbert sees nothing, he pushes his chair back and stretches his legs, pats his stomach. Anything sweet? he asks.

Cookies, says June.

Store bought? asks Gilbert. June nods, Gilbert is not keen on her baking. I’ll take a pack to the river.

Hot for fishing, says June.

No matter.

June watches as he checks his tackle box. His stout fingers sift through a small can of worms and his lips move as if whispering sweet nothings, he gentles his hooks, caresses the flies. As ever she is amazed he can make something so delicate. Where does patience live in that worn and hardened body?

Sunscreen?

Nothing wrong with sun, says Gilbert.

 

Last time Gilbert helped with dishes, when she was too slow and him impatient and not wanting to be late for a years ago plumbing Christmas get together, he climbed a counter to reach a fresh festive tea towel from a high cupboard and his belt buckle caught the fridge-freezer handle. He swung around, stuck, unwilling to ask for help. She watched for five glorious seconds before she reached over and unhooked him. She’s a better dishwasher than most, professional almost, when she’s done making beds at Motel 8 she often helps in the kitchen, a place that tolerates more spots on the glassware than Gilbert.

 

A ladybug sits on the window ledge. Fly away home, whispers June. Gilbert has good aim for bugs. The ladybug sits. Too hot to move, thinks June. She tears the flap from a cereal box and scoops the tiny body up, walks outside to set it in the shade of the dandelions.

 

The sudsy water soothes the skin of her itching hands. Through the window Gilbert carries his fishing gear, walks across the yard to the river, a mostly full case of Molson’s Canadian deftly nestled in his armpit. The glass of the window is clean with Windex streaks; she must break out the vinegar and newspaper. Tomorrow; outside the river calls. Without thought, her fingers search out the skin above a soft squishy healing bruise. Beyond the window the air shimmies its summer dance, the river moves closer, then back into place.

 

Crisped grass prickles June’s feet as she walks to the river, her sandals a thin animal skin barely covering her bones and flesh. The heat smacks back at her every step, air thick in her mouth, nose and lungs. Dryness invades the underfoot world, as she follows the crusted tire track etched towards the riverbank, left by a buddy of Gilbert’s reluctant to walk from the paved lot beside their double wide. June listens for voices, but the air’s buzzing holds no human whisper. She heads away from Gilbert’s fishing spot. The water is deep and glimmers in the sun.

 

 

Fish

 

June steps into the water, further and deeper, wriggles free of the serviceable candy stripe dress, watches it melt towards the sun-baked bank. Water closes over her head. Her eyes open and watch as she moves beneath the water, skin dissolves into scales, an all over joy. Her underwear frays into the eternal pulse of the current. June grows into her gleaming raw body. She shifts weight with grace, arches her whole self to catch her tail, relishes the swish of her bulk against the river’s living heft; she watches the world through bubbles and reeds and sifts water through gills, eases her fishy body through its deep. Cool, refreshing, her scales absorb to clamminess, a gentle slime oozes across her body, swaddles her, lingers against water-cooled skin, she slows, she speeds, she dips, she trawls below the surface. June’s soul soars with each arcing sweep of her swirling tail. Must remember to sift the oxygen, sift the oxygen, watch, see, swim. A beer can twists against the underwater beauty, one of Gilbert’s? she noses her fishy face up close, from side to side to side, Coors Light. Maybe Gilberts’s, sometimes he drinks light to drink more or if it's on sale. Beer according to Gilbert.

 

Above, the sky ripples blue green through the river. June twists to catch its movement, its momentum, and laughs, pauses to recognize the unfamiliar joy in her sound. She sees a wriggle on the surface. Hunger rocks June’s fishy belly and she swims upwards, latches on to a mouthful of insects. A touch bland. Might sea insects come seasoned with salt? She has a hankering for sweet and searches the surface for a bee body with a thin taste of honey, sees nothing, dips down and angles through a thatch of weeds, through the small summer green gaps, pauses to circle and glimpse the full beauty of her scaley length before she slaps through the water towards a thicket of belly shaking fragrance. Her mouth waters within the water, a twist of soggy newspaper floats by, the local free paper filled with advertising, she remembers reading…then loses the memory in the scent of a clew of worms.

 

The first worm is plump and wormy delicious, slides down just right. June watches the sun sparkle up the river. A second worm perches above. In the absence of bees, perfect for dessert. It bobs out of reach and June stretches, relaxes, reaches again. It slips down smooth with an unexpected comfort then a gritty aftertaste she can’t shake. June spits and spits again, jerks and shudders, speeds up and upwards, thrashes her tail against the water searching to brake until, reluctant, she breaks into air, trying to spit, trying to hawk, hook in mouth as the hot summer air bakes her scales, dries them off, diminishes their beauty. The hands reach out, one either side, one for each eye, hands she knows, reaching in for a two-sided cuddle. Rough, inclement. Disconnected hands. Capture and release.

 

He holds her in his arms, hands caressing. June senses the pressure of love and relaxes, revels until in a spurt of pain the hook tears away and she swallows a trace of worm residue. A movement, an awkwardness - like a first missed kiss - and June is tucked under one fumbling arm, eye firm against a sweat wet T-shirt as a hand rummages below, her whole body squeezed in pain and more pain until there it is, the phone. He poses for the selfie and June squirms so hard it looks like she’s smiling. A broad fish grin, defiant and precarious.

 

June concentrates, mind over matter, her gills feather and fan, sift and shift, her scales pinch against the evening, she focusses on the late summer heat, the blazing sun, the arm’s sudden friendliness almost a comfort, suddenly a crush, a force. She expands with a jolt of accomplishment, the glee of satisfaction and with a swift heave of her body she catches the sharp flash of startlement on his face, hears another click, grows big, grows a toothache, suddenly toothy. Another click, her eye to the right sees a startled man caught by a camera, buckling beneath her weight, barely able to hold on. June opens her mouth wide, her teeth gleam in the summer sun, and she sees him see the sharp sharky edges. She relishes the freedom of her water body and relents, licks the arm that hold her fast. Salted with sweat and surprisingly tasty. The arm jerks and June catapults free. Flying fish, she hits the surface and sinks through the waters, her shape shifting through refraction. Down to the bottom, relishing the depths.

 

 

Man

 

Gilbert rearranges words in his brain and heads towards the house, practises his story for June. In his head he’s a hero, he’s magnificent, a champion undefeated. He sees the fish, its hugeness, its toothiness, its attack, his defense, his triumph, how he swung it through the air, how it landed in the water. The size of the splash. He’s the fisherman with the hugest fish, who saves his arm from the fate of a fish’s supper, who wasn’t swallowed, who doesn’t live in the belly of the fish. He ties his words into sentences, bright and shiny and certain, when he walks into the kitchen they’ll make him a crown. June will praise him and her eyes will shine. Maybe, he’ll switch out his belt buckle, June’s never liked the oil donkey he wears to keep his trousers up, though in truth his belly is probably enough and the buckle digs in, but he loves it even when it gives him gas. It’s his youth and glory, it makes him who he is, him and his brothers, counting the oil wells, proud to be young and ferocious. He could have worked the rigs but plumber’s helper’s not so bad, safer and no leaving June alone. Maybe he’ll get a wild rose, soft edges, June would approve a rose belt buckle. A rose belt buckle? Not for Gilbert, he grins inside, Gilbert outfoxed the biggest fish. Better he helps with the dishes, he sees June smile, he likes June’s smile, it slips into the hidden smile, the dangerous smile, the taunting smile, her smile as weapon, him hanging on the cupboard. Hooked. The fish, he says out loud, was magnificent. Magnificent!  Maybe they’ll go to Stan’s party, maybe he’ll buy her a store made dress. Nah, she’ll call it a criticism of her sewing, besides dresses cost money. He’ll rearrange his words, tell her he likes the dress, he’s disappointed she fixed it. He’ll buy a bottle of wine for tomorrow’s dinner, white wine for fish, June has a fondness for fish, not so much wine. She was off her food this evening. His arm looks gritty and victorious, he still feels the sweep of the fish tongue against it. He wipes sweat from his forehead. Nothing wrong with sweat. He'll find the right words, drill down all the way to her heart, show her he’s still the old Gilbert. Why won’t he go to the party? Stan’s a good man. There’ll be food with spices, he doesn’t like spicy. June will be anxious, scared he’ll say something tasteless. Stan’s a good man, he does as Gilbert tells him. At work. Stan’s polite, always proper. But sometimes Stan’s words dance over Gilbert’s head, unexpected and overlong. Maybe Stan doesn’t like him. Stan’s loss. Gilbert puts his hand on the doorknob to his kitchen. Home and castle. He steps inside the house. He rearranges his sentences. He watches his words in the thick air, he toughens them up. He sharpens them in the stale fish air of the kitchen. Sharp words, sharp mind. June, he calls. June, I’m back. I caught an enormous fish, June. Where are you woman? Come here when I’m talking. The house echoes his words back to him. Empty.

 

 

Woman

 

June walks. The sun dries her skin; welcome. Her sandals are soft and squelch against the world, a pair of serviceable comrades. The slightest breeze accompanies her, ruffles and lifts her heart, she is all optimism, she lifts her feet with a liquid bounce.