Pike Place
Every Saturday she wanders
the Pike Place Fish Market
in search of the freshest Salmon or Halibut,
sometimes even Snapper or Trout.
She eyes the cuts carefully,
examining the clearness of the eyes
the brightness of the scales
the thickness of the steaks.
Every Saturday he watches her
weave between the hoards of people.
He keeps his head down
toward his work,
but his eyes flicker
between her and the fish he cuts.
His hands are covered in blood
and fish juice,
leaving them dry
with a film of white.
He stops to stare at his hands:
how dirty, how filthy they are.
Scars and cuts pepper his skin,
and he opens and closes his hands,
flexing the thick muscles beneath his weathered skin.
He picks off a shred of Halibut stuck to his thumb,
and flicks it to the barrel full
of innards, leftover skin, and fatty cuts.
He keeps his head down
in shame as he picks up the knife again.
Were these brought in today?
He hears a voice ask, each syllable
ringing like a soft bell.
He looks up and his eyes widen,
he stares into her face:
her cheeks are flushed from the cold,
her eyes are like the bright oceans he sees
in the glossy pages of National Geographic.
He holds her glance, his mouth open
like a fish.
He stands still, hunched over the body
of the Halibut
he isn’t quite finished cutting.
Well? They look fresh
But you never know these days,
she cracks a smile,
and he can’t help but smile back.
He stands up slowly, and puts the knife down.
He wipes his hands
on his apron, covered in rust red
stains.
As fresh as you can get here
is all he can muster.
He takes her order, straining
to keep his eyes from wandering
back to hers.
He almost gives her Swordfish,
instead of Halibut,
8 pounds,
instead of 6.
Thank you, I’ll see you next Saturday,
and her smile seems to fly off her face
and hit him in the chest
and knock the wind out of him,
because all he can say
is goodbye.
