Ah, the things they’ll believe, these men. These deceivers.
“Let’s go out on my rowboat,” I told him. “Just you and me, to watch the eclipse.”
“I’m afraid of the water,” he said. “I don’t know how to swim,” he told me.
Good to know.
He looked so surprised when I opened his skull with the business end of the oar, and the lake weeds stretched out their long green fingers to receive him.
Those lake weeds, they’re always so grateful.
They’ll take any present, wrapped or not.
Moonlight.
Stars.
One minute he’s there, then it’s dark and he’s gone.
Poof.
Maybe he’s magic.
A disappearing act, a rabbit in a hat.
Got your nose.
Slash, bang.
A kick in the teeth to watch him ride the current down.
I like it when they swirl to the bottom like used bathwater. I don’t hear them beg or struggle. All I hear is the instant ka-ching of an old-fashioned cash register.
Another debt, paid in full.
I should charge him extra for the swim lesson, but I don’t.
We’re square.
Say hi to the fish for me, pond scum.