Page 67 of The Unlikely Pair
I edge closer to Harry, and sure enough, in the pool below, half a dozen silver fish with dark vertical stripes swim lazily about.
Unfortunately, when Harry dangles the grub in the pool, the fish don’t pay it any attention.
“Come on, fishy fishy fishy,” I croon softly. “Come eat our nice, juicy grub. You know you want to.”
But the perch remain unconvinced.
“Maybe they’ve already had breakfast?” I suggest.
“I think the problem is we don’t have anything to attract them,” Harry says.
“I take offense to that. I’m very attractive,” I say.
Harry rolls his eyes. “Fishing lures often have bright colors to attract the fish.”
“Hold that thought.” I rummage in the survival kit and produce one of the energy bar wrappers we’ve kept. The inside is a flashing silver.
“We could tie some of this on to help.”
Harry nods. “That’s a good idea. It could work.”
Necessity is the mother of all fishing techniques.I almost hear my mother’s voice in my head.
“I’m full of good ideas,” I say.
“Well, I agree you’re definitely full of something,” Harry replies.
I smirk as he quickly and efficiently cuts a sliver of the wrapper and ties it onto the line.
One part of me hates that Harry seems so capable with this kind of stuff, effortlessly upstaging me. But equally, there’s something inherently…attractive about someone so capable.Especially as my stomach will hopefully benefit from his capabilities.
Watching him efficiently cast the line, his forehead creased in concentration, reminds me of the same look he gets when delivering a speech in Parliament.
Only now it’s directed at a school of unsuspecting fish.
I’m watching Harry rather than the line when it happens. He suddenly jerks the line, nearly stumbling off the rock before catching his balance.
“I believe I’ve got one,” he says.
“Don’t lose it, don’t lose it,” I urge as Harry spools in the line rapidly.
A decent-sized perch breaks the surface, shimmering foil in its mouth.
I don’t see a fish. I see protein. Protein we desperately need.
Harry leans down to grab it, but just as he’s about to put his hand on it, the perch makes one last desperate bid for freedom. With a forceful twist, the hook dislodges from the fish’s mouth and the fish disappears back into the safety of the pool with a splash.
Fuck.
Harry and I both stand there, not saying anything. Harry’s nostrils pinch. I can practically hear him mentally composing a strongly worded letter to the fish, expressing his disappointment in its lack of cooperation.
My disappointment is overwhelming, but for some reason, I care about Harry’s disappointment too.
“Oh well, there’s no use crying over a lost fish,” I say.
Harry’s forehead wrinkles. “What?”
I don’t want to share my mother’s habit of twisting idioms to produce funny results with Harry Matheson.
