Picnic Point

The girl sits in the dirt at the very tip of Picnic Point, watching her bobber in the darkening water. The man she is with opens their cooler and pulls out a can of beer.

“You want a soda?”

“No.”

He closes the cooler and goes back to stand beside his bamboo pole. He belches and wipes his whiskers with the back of his hand.

His name is Michael. She hates him. He is stupid and mean. He thinks brown female mallards are a different species from the brilliant ring-necked males. He thinks All Star Wrestling is real. She doesn’t want to be here but it’s what she has to do.

Her bobber goes under, just briefly. She blinks, wondering if it’s a trick of the fading light. She thinks it might be moving, she thinks it might not. It picks up speed, ducking below the dusk-pink sky reflected on the water. She jerks her pole, the tip bowing.

“Damned if you didn’t get another, girl!” Michael shouts. “Fight ’im!”

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