She dangles her hand down along the battered side of the old row boat.
He's fishing. He's rowing. He's catching freshwater lake trout for supper. He's trying, anyway.
She lets her fingers touch the surface of the cold, cold water and tilts her head back so the sun can lick her throat.
He doesn't say anything about it, as speech and fishing are strange and inappropriate bedfellows in his mind.
She lets the fish nibble drops of salty sweat from her wrist and watches a bald eagle drift in wide circles over the lake and island.
He changes bait from worms to eggs in failed attempts to lure anything in. He watches the sun settle into the tops of the douglas firs. He rows them back to the campsite.
"I wasn't hungry for fish anyway," she says. She smiles as he builds a fire and sets up the tent and rolls out the sleeping bags.
She catches him.
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