February in Cadiz
Ant Veal
The sardine had arrived, silent and unannounced. The man looked down at the plate, the singular fish with all of itself bared to the world, pickled into shimmering, milky opaline. The flesh mirrored the clouds, the sea. A breeze ruffled its gills.
“Do you know why they let you keep your head?” The man gazed at grey waves, silent some minutes. “Do you wish they kept it back? He frowned. “Better to be in the stock, perhaps.” The fish offered no opinion either way. “I would give you mine, although…” his voice tailed off into the wind.
“I’m floating away, you see,” the man said, by way of explanation.
“Manners,” he muttered. “She would be so disappointed.” He turned back to his plate. “I apologise, Señor, to burden you with this intimacy. I did not ask permission. It’s true, though. Even if you can’t see it from down there.”
The fish lay, unmoving, seemingly unmoved.
A finger traced the air above a split in the table, so close to brushing the bleached wood. “You see? I can barely touch anything.”
“It wasn’t always such an issue. As a child it was enough just to make sure I kept my feet on the ground.” He smiled. “Please, don’t feel guilty. She couldn’t see it either, even as I clung to her. And now? Now she’s gone, and I am untethered.”
The man glanced sideways, embarrassed. ”You wouldn’t know… I can’t hold…” he sighed, watched the scudding clouds. “Nevermind. Afflictions are not there to be shared, Señor. Impoliteness. Again, my apologies.”
A whisper of brine swirled around them.
“It’s so tiring, you know?”
The fish looked up at the man, a flicker of sympathy deep in glassy eyes. Its mouth twitched. But the man was gone, a speck in the endless sky.
