The Woman Married to a Fish
Last Summer I finally caught him, dragged from the lethargy of seabed silence, through a lap slap slippery tide to my hubble-bubble world. Home in the small kitchen, hardly elbow room for the cat let alone this bloated monster who lolled in the bath all day, using up the Radox. He delighted in the dark liquefaction of January storms, took up residence in the garden pond began flip dialogues with louche frogs. Told me he preferred scales to sex, installed a mermaid called Rita, who hummed gauzy songs and combed out her phosphorescence onto my living room carpet. By Christmas my charity was wearing thin, I threatened the hook and line but he was cavalier. Some things are just not obvious at first. The truth is bald and cold and stinks like rotten fish. No time for tears. I wrapped her hair around her throat in a twisted mess of nooses, invited Mr Cram the taxidermist. We had a whale of a time.
Tina Cole
