Fishing – an Amalie and Ronald fragment

There was just enough light to see by.  He picked his way over loose rocks, sensing the possibility of their movement before he felt it, adjusting his weight accordingly.

His shoes swung round his neck, hanging from their fastened laces, a pendulum marking his timing.

In his left hand, he carried a coiled line, the hook on the end of it buried deep in the centre.

He found the hollow in the rocks on the promontory, sat on an overhang where he’d sat often enough before.

He got the bait-tin from his pocket, pulled open the lid.  He picked out a worm, hooked it, and let out the line into the water below him.

The float bobbed on the surface.

He could imagine the disguised hook far down, the worm wriggling against its fate.

He shivered – he desired the death of the worm, and very soon.

[I’m sorry – Ronald! – I know you won’t like the name I’ve given you.  But this isn’t really you!  Amalie may really be me – but that – Ronald! – isn’t you!]

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