The Price of Fish

In the morning, Lisa sat on the beach and ate papaya swimming in lime juice while listening to people argue about the price of fish. She didn’t understand exactly what they were saying, but their language was so alien it sounded like a song, and every now and then the fisherman would brandish the bloody half of a swordfish he seemed so eager to sell. The scent of fish blood wafted over to her with the sea breeze, a salty edge on a smell that reminded her of cutlery, which struck her as strange. Lisa was still thinking about it that night, perched haphazardly on a barstool in the sand, and wondering why it was cutlery, and the image of forks and spoons organised in drawers that clattered into her head with that smell. Later on, when the margaritas were hiding behind the corners of her teeth and tripping her words on the way out of her mouth, she told a stranger with no name about her husband who she’d married young, although lately she hadn’t been about to remember why. They’d talked until the night cracked and the moon tumbled out of the sky, and the next morning, still feeling the warmth of his hands, Lisa threw away her wedding ring, and hopped a plane to paradise.