Page 133 of Malachi
“Is it hard to fish in a river?” she asked, tagging along behind me.
“From what I could see on the map, it’s less of a river and more of a good-sized stream. Should make for some good fishing. And it should make for even better dinner tonight,” I said, giving her a wink.
“We’re going to eat the fish we catch? Oh! Are we going to do that thing where we put the fish on the stick, bones and all, and cook it over the fire?!” she nearly shrieked with excitement.
“No. We’re going to gut and filet them, and then cook the filets on a cast-iron skillet over the fire,” I corrected her, chuckling at her idea of what cooking fish while camping looked like.
“I’m so excited!” she shrieked, jumping up and down. Apparently, her ankle really was doing better.
“Well, then let’s get to it.” It was hard not to match her excitement.
Before long, we were trekking through the trees on our way to the small river while I looked at the map. Fishing was an adventure in and of itself. I could have bet money that she would have been completely grossed out by putting worms on the hook, let alone with gutting and preparing the fish, but she surprised me for the millionth time in our brief marriage.
She took everything in stride, demanding to do it all herself. She pulled fish guts out with no fear, her tongue stuck in her cheek as she concentrated on doing everything just as I had instructed her. But to see her eyes light up as she held up a fishline full of fish she had caught and prepared — that was the holy grail of moments for me. She was so damned proud of herself. Not half as proud as I was of her, though.
Dinner had been put together and cooked easily. I ended up showing Eden a few different ways to prepare and cook the fish. With some of the larger trout, I did as I had initially explained, processing them down to individual filets to fry. With others, I gutted and scaled them and removed the heads, then pan fried them whole.
And at her stubborn insistence, we cooked one the way she had imagined, spearing it on a sharp stick and roasting it directly over the coals. She had surprised me by eating that entire fish with her fingers, hissing and whining as she burned her fingers, but refusing any help that I offered. It was delicious, and in what felt like no time at all, nightfall was upon us.
“I can’t believe how good that fish was,” she groaned, leaning back on her mildly burnt hands as we sat by the fire.
“It’s amazing how much better it tastes when you catch it yourself,” I agreed. It really was some damn excellent fish, too.
“I’m not sure I’ll ever like any other fish as much as I did these,” she sighed.
“That just means we’ll have to go fishing more often,” I shrugged, making a mental note to do this as often as we possibly could. It felt good. It felt right.
“The sky looks prettier in Zion than it does here. I miss it,” she commented, looking up at the stars that lit up the night’s sky. It was a clear night, the moon shining full. That boded well for my plans.
I stood up, moving behind her.
“Sit up. I want to hold you by the fire,” I murmured. She shifted, making room for me. My arms wrapped around her, her head falling against my shoulder.
“I’m glad we decided to do this,” she sighed.
“Me too. Living in hotels these last few weeks was getting to me,” I admitted, nuzzling my nose against her hair. It had begun to pull out of the braid she had plaited this morning. She smelled of vanilla and cinnamon and forest. It was an intoxicating combination I was growing addicted to.
“Ugh, yes. It feels stifling after being at home with you in Zion. Granted, the rest of Zion sucked ass,” she admitted.
“Do you miss it? Our home?” I asked her quietly, pulling her into me, finding comfort in our little cuddle moment.
“I do, but it’s complicated,” she answered honestly
“Tell me about it,” I urged her. My fingers ran lightly up and down her forearms. She wore a thin flannel shirt. I found myself wishing she were in a tank top, only so I could touch her skin more easily. That touch, that connection with her, it grounded me.
“Well, on the one hand, I miss it so much. I miss the house. You put so much time and effort into the craftsmanship of that home. I don’t think I realized it until we were stuck in hotels, but I miss the natural wood and all the little touches you added that just made it home. I miss the solitude.” Her answer humbled me, moving me deeply.
“Thank you, love,” I whispered, kissing the top of her head. I wrapped my arms around her waist again, simply holding her body to mine as we reminisced.
“Plus, I really hate that we can hear that the people in the next room are binge watching episodes of that one show. What is it called again? Oh yeah… Friends,” she scoffed with a laugh.
“Oh, my God, I know. I do not know how people watch that much television,” I groaned, agreeing with her.
“No kidding. If I have to hear that theme song one more time — the one with the claps?” she chided. I couldn’t help but roll my eyes. That song had been stuck in my head for days.
“I miss the garden,” I admitted quietly. I missed so many things about home, but our time together, even though it was short — those were the things I missed the most. Our moments in our home and on our land together.
“Oh, me too! Food fresh from the garden?” she sighed. I could hear the yearning in her voice, the way she missed it so poignantly, just as I did.
