Shaun Turner How I Learned to Fish
That guy in bed is curled coke into his gumline. in his sleep, like a shrimp. He hugs a pillow like it is my body, and I can see the crack of his ass carved into a flimsy sheet. I think that from the backside, he looks like a good guy. Too much attitude, a little pompous. In east Texas, you take what you can get. I drove to his suburban apartment at 2 AM, and made the awkward small-talk. I nodded when he spoke to affect a certain knowing. And before he pulled me in for that first bitter kiss, he rubbed
fishermen said, just When I lived off the tasted like that. Galveston coastline with I look at the guy in my father, the two of us bed—a boy, really. I went shrimping one think, I should leave morning with our before he wakes up, fisherman neighbor and before he gets some kind his son. The sky was of idea. I pull gym shorts overcast, and I sat on top over my waist and feel of an ice chest as the the keys jangle in one three men dragged their pocket. Briefly, I nets into the sea. After consider waking him they pulled the mesh with a kiss. He will kiss heaping with brown me back. He will smile shrimps onto the boat, and wipe the back of his the fisherman's son hand across his face. peeled one fresh. He took In bed last night, his a pocket knife, and eased hands pawed at my back, the bloodline out of the scratching in neat circles. shrimp's back. He said Boy, he said, give me taste it, and my first raw some of that. And I didn't bite was bitter iodine. know if it was the Brown ones, the alcohol talking, or the