cigarette habit instantly. I hoped someday to test my theory.
Lily paddled us slowly back to the dock at the foot of Jeff Newton’s hill. Trout continued to break the surface ahead of us, some of them almost close enough to touch with my rod tip. Occasionally one would burst completely out of the water, and the sound of the splash would ride across the water towards us.
She eased the canoe alongside the dock. I climbed out and snugged the painter to a ring. Then I held down my hand to Lily. She took it, braced one knee on the dock, and hauled herself out of the canoe. She didn’t let go of my hand. Instead, she tiptoed up and kissed me beside my ear. ‘That was the most fun I’ve had in years,’ she said quietly. ‘For a while out there, I didn’t think of anything except being there. Thank you.’
‘They say fishing is the most fun a man can have standing up. I guess that goes for a woman, too.’ I gave her an awkward one-armed hug. ‘You’re an accomplished guide,’ I added. ‘Thanks.’
She turned and relaxed against me, and I could feel the fronts of her thighs pressing against mine and her breasts soft against my chest. She burrowed her face into the hollow of my throat and muttered something I couldn’t understand. I felt her mouth against my skin. I leaned back and nudged her chin with the crook of my forefinger. She looked up at me. ‘I couldn’t understand what you said,’ I said.
I heard her chuckle. ‘I said, you really love fishing, don’t you?’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘It’s my passion.’
‘I like that. A man with a passion. Most people don’t have a passion.’
I hugged her. ‘Fishing helps me see things straight. It works as a kind of metaphor for me. A metaphor for life.’
Her lips pressed against my throat.
‘Actually,’ I said, ‘I think it’s the other way around. Life is a metaphor for fishing.’
‘Oh, sure,’ she whispered. ‘I understand perfectly.’
She touched the back of my head with the fingers of one hand, and then her other hand reached up to my neck and she moved against me.
‘Hey,’ I said.
She tilted back her face and smiled at me and then angled her head so our mouths would meet. I stroked her hair. Her hips pressed against me.
After a long moment she twisted her mouth away from mine and ducked her head. ‘Oh, boy,’ she whispered into my throat.
I held her against me, gazing up at the dark sky, suddenly feeling awkward. ‘Oh, boy?’
She looked up at me. ‘Yeah. Oh, boy. Something wrong with oh, boy?’
‘No. Oh, boy is perfect.’ I kissed her again. We dragged it out, improvised a little. I moved my hand up and down her back. I could feel the tenseness of her muscles.
Standing on a dock by a little Cape Cod kettle pond, holding a woman seemed the natural way to end an evening of fly fishing for trout. But after a few minutes, one either proceeds to the next step or else breaks the embrace. Lily seemed inclined to do neither, so it was I who gently held her by the upper arms and pushed her away from me.
She looked at me with her head cocked to the side, smiling. Then she shrugged. She picked up the two trout and the paddle and I gathered up the fly-fishing gear and we trudged up the path to the house. We were careful that no parts of our bodies touched along the way.
When we got back to the house, she disappeared in the direction of her room. When she came back, I was cleaning the trout in the sink. Her face shone as if she had just scrubbed it. She had brushed her hair. The top of her shirt was still unbuttoned. She stood close to me, her hip firm against mine.
‘Hi,’ she said softly.
I nodded. ‘Look at this.’
I slit the belly of one of the fish from anus to pectorals, hooked out the entrails with my forefinger, and then pricked the stomach with the tip of the knife. I sorted out the bits of matter that burst out and showed them to her. ‘Damselfly nymphs,’ I said. ‘They were gorging.’
Women, in my experience, have
Lily paddled us slowly back to the dock at the foot of Jeff Newton’s hill. Trout continued to break the surface ahead of us, some of them almost close enough to touch with my rod tip. Occasionally one would burst completely out of the water, and the sound of the splash would ride across the water towards us.
She eased the canoe alongside the dock. I climbed out and snugged the painter to a ring. Then I held down my hand to Lily. She took it, braced one knee on the dock, and hauled herself out of the canoe. She didn’t let go of my hand. Instead, she tiptoed up and kissed me beside my ear. ‘That was the most fun I’ve had in years,’ she said quietly. ‘For a while out there, I didn’t think of anything except being there. Thank you.’
‘They say fishing is the most fun a man can have standing up. I guess that goes for a woman, too.’ I gave her an awkward one-armed hug. ‘You’re an accomplished guide,’ I added. ‘Thanks.’
She turned and relaxed against me, and I could feel the fronts of her thighs pressing against mine and her breasts soft against my chest. She burrowed her face into the hollow of my throat and muttered something I couldn’t understand. I felt her mouth against my skin. I leaned back and nudged her chin with the crook of my forefinger. She looked up at me. ‘I couldn’t understand what you said,’ I said.
I heard her chuckle. ‘I said, you really love fishing, don’t you?’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘It’s my passion.’
‘I like that. A man with a passion. Most people don’t have a passion.’
I hugged her. ‘Fishing helps me see things straight. It works as a kind of metaphor for me. A metaphor for life.’
Her lips pressed against my throat.
‘Actually,’ I said, ‘I think it’s the other way around. Life is a metaphor for fishing.’
‘Oh, sure,’ she whispered. ‘I understand perfectly.’
She touched the back of my head with the fingers of one hand, and then her other hand reached up to my neck and she moved against me.
‘Hey,’ I said.
She tilted back her face and smiled at me and then angled her head so our mouths would meet. I stroked her hair. Her hips pressed against me.
After a long moment she twisted her mouth away from mine and ducked her head. ‘Oh, boy,’ she whispered into my throat.
I held her against me, gazing up at the dark sky, suddenly feeling awkward. ‘Oh, boy?’
She looked up at me. ‘Yeah. Oh, boy. Something wrong with oh, boy?’
‘No. Oh, boy is perfect.’ I kissed her again. We dragged it out, improvised a little. I moved my hand up and down her back. I could feel the tenseness of her muscles.
Standing on a dock by a little Cape Cod kettle pond, holding a woman seemed the natural way to end an evening of fly fishing for trout. But after a few minutes, one either proceeds to the next step or else breaks the embrace. Lily seemed inclined to do neither, so it was I who gently held her by the upper arms and pushed her away from me.
She looked at me with her head cocked to the side, smiling. Then she shrugged. She picked up the two trout and the paddle and I gathered up the fly-fishing gear and we trudged up the path to the house. We were careful that no parts of our bodies touched along the way.
When we got back to the house, she disappeared in the direction of her room. When she came back, I was cleaning the trout in the sink. Her face shone as if she had just scrubbed it. She had brushed her hair. The top of her shirt was still unbuttoned. She stood close to me, her hip firm against mine.
‘Hi,’ she said softly.
I nodded. ‘Look at this.’
I slit the belly of one of the fish from anus to pectorals, hooked out the entrails with my forefinger, and then pricked the stomach with the tip of the knife. I sorted out the bits of matter that burst out and showed them to her. ‘Damselfly nymphs,’ I said. ‘They were gorging.’
Women, in my experience, have
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