A Light Fish

A light fish fell into place for dinner. Apoka could not believe her luck of finding the fresh fish at the market.

Well, luck had a big part in the plans.

Apoka went looking for an impressive meal. A simple meal meant to leave her guest with more than a positive feeling about her. While the invited boy had shown interest in the past dates, Apoka did not want to leave anything to chance. Her night would shine in the womanly art of cooking. She never felt less feminist and yet so anticipatory proud.

Fresh fish came onto the menu when she daydreamed into the fish counter and noticed an error. The fish she had looked at before was now re-priced in error. The mistake came home with her.

Into the make-shift kitchen, she felt a desire for long counters and matching pots with a variety of aprons to match. The unpacking of the groceries bought special for the night tarnished her image of the kitchen.

Such nice, white fish did not deserve to be hacked into fillets by her dulled beyond sharpening knives that didn't manage to cut nor match. The promise of perfection from her moment at the store dulled. She might not be able to rely on the fish's nature qualities to carry over her meal.

Nor could it carry over her excitement about the date to anticipation on the guy. Her fish would cook. Her kitchen would change that night. The boy would be himself and she would be Apoka. Someway, the night would proceed.