Anna Maxymiw

Dave holds my hands in his as we touch the insides of the fish. He layers a pointer finger over my own—here. These are the pin bones. Bones that float, unattached, in the middle of muscle. Bones that are designed to make a fish tense up and swim as far and as fast as possible.

In between reams of slick meat, the tiny bones prick my fingers in a plaintive rhythm as we move our hands along their curving pathway. This is how you remove them. Cross-legged on the white sand beach, pickerel guts are spread across the surface of the old oar in front of us, and I’m holding his fillet knife in my other hand, ready to cut.

I think of the quick flash of a lake-water palm across a back whiter than sun-harsh forearms, of my own slick meat and the inability to dip my fingers between my legs in bed. I share a cabin with three other girls. Where we are, every movement is heard. Every half-eyed look is remembered. I can’t touch myself while thinking of another girl’s boyfriend. I can’t smile, tell him I like that you bully me. I like your green eyes. You’re going to forget me when we leave here.

Dave watches as I cut the pin bones out of the ragged fillet. They’re still encased in a thin, pale strip of flesh, and for a moment I look at them, opaline in the bright sun. I like the idea of these bones, of an escape mechanism embedded deep in a body. I like the way Dave is standing over me, the brim of his hat making a shadow along my hands. I like the way the summer is stretched in front of us, uncertain.