Gulls wheel over head and trail the wake of the boat, swooping in to snatchs bits of gristle and offal from the air as I flick them to starboard, I finish one tuna and throw the carcass—weighty head and the empty, exposed spine wobbling through the air—and the gulls dive toward it en masse. The smell of diesel exhaust and sea air mix with the iron tang of viscera as I put the next fish up to the cutting board and line the edge of the slender knife behind the pectoral fin for the first slice.
late examen—
Ishmael's narrative
cuts to the quick
late examen—
Ishmael's narrative
cuts to the quick
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