FISH


Ed’s here, I never thought we’d talk again.

“Here you are Gail,” he says. He’s holding a fish. It’s dripping.

“A fish?” I say.

“Yep. Where d’you want it?”

It’s a big fish. It’s dead.

“I dunno,” I say. “Where d’you think?”

“Don’t look so interested,” he says.

“Huh? Why should I look interested in a fish?”

“You said you wanted one.”

“Bollocks I did. When?”

“In your email,” he says. “A hake, you said.”

“I never.”

“You did. You said, after an argument we needed a hake.”

“I did not. I said we needed a handshake, start again.”

“Oh.” Silence. “I didn’t see the ‘hands’ bit,” he says. “I was off out on the boat.”

“Good fishing was it?”

“Yep. Caught lots of these.”

“Hake?”

“Yep.”

“You don’t half look funny standing there with a fish.”

“Which half?”

“Oh. Look. Don’t start. Put that fish down, for heavens sake, it’s dripping.”

“Am I staying then?”

“Looks like.”

“Shake?”