“Fishing for Love”

By Taylor Hopper

           Fishing For Love

In the quiet space between a breath, where we exist in neither here nor there, the first ray of a sunrise breaks over the horizon.  It catches across the water, burning with the brilliant flame of promising orange. I almost expect it to catch on my line but the flame is only light and my line is only an empty promise.

All around me the fishermen pause, daring to look from under the wide brim of their hats. There’s a collective gasp followed by whispers of a good omen, and then the moment is gone. The sun rises and the dancing flame winks out. Now the light elongates into the soft comfort of a pink morning.

I frown and the breath continues. The here is concrete and time moves on in my tiny boat, dooming me to a full day spent at the other end of my pole.

Ahead of me there is a flurry of motion, a ripple in the water, and a fish being dragged to the surface. The man in the boat laughs when he sees it, a monster of a creature. I wonder how much love he could squeeze out of it and who he will give it to, if he even gives it away.

I wait for the rush of jealousy that seizes the fishers around me but it never comes. Only the remnants of some forgotten emotion. It’s as if a ghost lives inside of me, wallowing as she haunts and I can feel her in traces of the melancholy she leaves behind. She is an old friend of mine and I’m reluctant to leave her behind. Instead, I fish for others. My parents, my sister, even my neighbors have been gifted my love, for if I catch a love fish it is my love to gift.

I sigh and recast the line, having given up on modern techniques long ago. The Internet claims that the size of your fish will depend on the different techniques you try but I think it’s almost always luck. Next to me another trophy is caught and a smile is given. I stare at that smile, as brilliant as the flames that burned moments ago and notice with a certain detachment as my ghost drifts through my heart.

 My lips twitch at the corner as I watch him, as if they wanted to try. I allow them to, feeling strange as my mouth pulls into a grin. It’s uncomfortable and tight, and I drop it immediately. The man holds up his fish and I glance away.

My eyes rest instead on the tip of my pole, pretending that I don’t notice when the man rips out a raw bite of his fish. Blood spills down his chin, the color of love itself, and my stomach churns. Under my fingers the pole jumps, dragging my attention to it. I stare at it mutely as it jumps again.

I think of who I’d want to gift it to. A coworker, the mailman, maybe the stray cat that hangs out near my house. For a moment, my mind flashes to an image of myself eating the fish and the possibility flutters inside my heart. My fingers move to set the hook but then as I grip the pole in grim determination, my ghost passes through my mind and I remember that I don’t want to.

My hands still and eventually, so does the line.

Taylor Hopper is a full-time nursing student in Michigan and a part-time painter and author. She primarily focuses on fiction pieces centered around topics of mental health, the strange and exciting, and the wild experience of being a human. When she has spare time, she likes to spend it visiting her family farm, reading at the beach, or hiking in the woods. You can find her art account on Instagram @taylor.hopper.art