Just Fishing Stuff

I reach for my fishing tackle box. Deeply hidden is the photograph of Nathalie. For two days I knew her, but have fantasized for fifty years. She stays twenty two, perpetually young and beautiful. Blonde with brown eyes that danced. Her sense of humor was keen. She was our tour guide in Moscow, my friend Stephen and I. We were both half in love with her. She is smiling in this photo. Looking right into my camera. I remember how hard my heart was beating when I took this photo. “What are you looking at?” Of course, not as hard as right now, as my wife of forty years heads toward me. I push Nathalie back under the drawer. “Just some fishing stuff.”