fisherman

The Lonely Fisherman He sat on a rowing boat in the fjord he wore a yellow raincoat and a southwestern cap matching his coat was like seeing a French movie, an intellectual one I couldn’t stand by the window all-day reading sat on the sofa reading a novel a book too long, a mind-numbing love story. I read several pages, then gave up and looked out of the window the boat was there, and his cap was floating like a life raft for I held my breath had he drowned, then the man got up he had fallen in his boat, perhaps slipped on a dead fish, but other ways looked fine He began rowing to shore and tied the boat to the small pier walking up the track to my cabin, he carried fish in a plastic bag I dived behind the sofa when he knocked on my door, in case he was selling fish. polite if he was of the talkative kind bore me with endless fishing tales. Back on the boat, he untied the rope turned gave me the finger.