Underneath the glisten of the summer moon they'd come. Mackerel, that is, hundreds of them, twisting and turning, their silver bodies luminous as they'd flirt with surface of the sea. We'd sit on the edge of the old dock, toes hovering just above high tide, hands entwined, staring into the warmth of the night, lost in an arbitrary rhythm as the tangled heaping of fish collided with the side of the dock. You never wasted a minute once they arrived, working with a prudent elegance; bating, casting, reeling, steadying yourself against the lapping waves as they kissed the sides of the dock and dispersed into a foamy white froth. The Mackerel were waiting for us. Waiting to fulfill their tacit purpose, to become undone; to be plucked, and cut, and seared in your granite kitchen and cast iron skillet. The sizzle, a monotonous hum, as you basted and buttered their delicate flesh in an array of color and spice. Your work of art, presented to me in a veil of pride, topped with oregano and a kiss. And after the feast, we'd demand our swollen bodies to move, racing to the tip of the sea, shedding walls and clothes, and stand in a hollow silence together as the surf grabbed our toes, and our feet sunk into the dampen earth; waiting for the Mackerel to come again.
You cook for a different crowd now. West north west, across horizons and three thousand miles. And I remain, wondering what dreamy silence, what savory spice, what dark night is waiting... waiting to undo me.
