Fish Dream

Mornings, she held the fish of her dreams struggling slippery and slappery in her arms.

The iconic lot on Caton was actually a sloping embankment, up which she scrambled. It always rained, it was always verdant. Boys in unique situations burst into airy rooms hugging grocery paper bags full of just-plucked spinach leaves. Women were sweet tooths. They took apart pens - the insides were a kind of Twizzler candy. They leaned out windows and sang at things, herded cats in warbly voices.

Two long narrow verandas, like piers, nearly met in the center of the lot. The distance between them was an arm's length. It gave new meaning to the phrase, "room for error." Covering letters changed hands, here. "I tried not to tell," said one. "Some tender notice you gave," said the other.

"You have to write," he said, "because you're not good at anything else."