Line

Jimmie knew that he needed to go fishing, to feel the cold, shaven wood and old rugged paint on the top ridge of the boat, to run his fingers through the mud and find his own god-damned worms, to shield his eyes from the barely-recognizable sun with a silly hat, to hold the weight of the anchor as if he were going down with it. Jimmie knew it was a bit cold for this. He knew that the fish may not bite. That, in fact, the waters would still be fairly choppy and still iced-over in parts of the lake where the fish were most likely going to reside.

This event - the connection of boat and lake, line and bait - has been grinding in the back of his mind for a moment too long. Maybe him and Stanley. Maybe a couple other guys. Just shooting the breeze, bullshitting all day and early into the night. Till the end of Saturdays and the only thing left to do is to mosey on back home and make a big stink about gutting the fish. Which he never does. Leaves it there to rot, Avrey says. Jimmie forks back up with a shot of orneriness, Hell, no. It's better aged. But they both know the truth, the fish is going to be in the garbage by Sunday morning. Jimmie won't be up yet, the fish is going to rot - with or without its head - in the fridge near the Arm & Hammer baking soda. But that box won't be enough to protect the kitchen from the stench of unforgiving bass.

He and Avrey went on a midnight run last night. And it was well later than midnight when they stopped at the convenience store for some Raisenettes and a Baby Ruth. Jimmie missed the taste of Baby Ruths, but being up late was a perfect excuse for a bite. Somehow he could wiggle in an excuse to buy a super-sized one. One last one. As they were making their way to the register, he distinctly heard the bell at the door and turned his neck just in time to see her. A girl with black hair. Blacker than the night. She wasn't familiar in the way he thought she might have been, but somehow he felt he did cross her path before. Or, wanted to.

Although it's warming up with the sun beating on him now, Jimmie's hands are bitterly cold. Since he's finished baiting the hooks, he puts the mitts on his cracked hands. Looking like a gol-danged fool. He should just take it like a man. Be rugged like the boat.

But nobody else is that stupid. No other man would dare risk unnecessary frost-bite to his hands. Jimmie's sure that Jesus Christ himself wouldn't have put on gloves on in the boat rides he always took in the Bible. Jimmie looks across the lake to notice that he's still the only one out on a Thursday morning.

Back at the gas station, he had turned away, back to the mundane, approachable and fantastic. Jimmie was going for the Baby Ruth. He thought of quickly turning a look to the jet-black haired girl. But no sooner had started that idea and function than a loud boom came shattering through that same area. He looked outside. Everyone looked outside. The whole neighborhood looked outside and saw a fire hydrant encased in a maroon Hyundai. Water pushing out everywhere. Glass. Shards of car. Metallic glimpses. And he's sure blood and flesh.

Jimmie looked at Avrey. He always turned to Avrey in these moments. And every moment. Because she was his home. Avrey knew Jimmie was gonna call in sick.

Jimmie, go sink in that line. Jimmie, go find yourself again.