As advertised, a short story where little transpires, but the vibes are immaculate…
by: Joseph Corey
The blackened shrimp made me question what I had been doing my whole life. As a half-Jew raised in a fully kosher household, I had continued to abstain from crustaceans into my adulthood. But these shrimp my partner made me try were tantalizing, fresh off the skillet and seasoned perfectly. The meat under the charred exterior was white and fluffy, almost like popcorn.
“Oh my God,” I uttered.
“I know,” she agreed, chowing down on a shrimp taco.
The restaurant was next to the bay. The place had its own dock, and Florida boaters pulled up for lunch or dinner, anytime from 10 in the morning to 10 at night.
We sat beside each other on one side of the wooden table. We were close, but with a sliver of space still between us.
I threw a fry in my mouth.
The french fries were fantastically prepared. Crispy on the outside, with a soft, gooey interior. A generous amount of salt glistened on each deep-fried potato.
I sipped my beer and sighed. It was perfect.
The waves slowly rolled a few feet from the wooden picnic tables. The Florida sun was strong. We both bathed in it, but I started to feel a light sting on my shoulders.
“Here, sit in this shade,” I said. The Sun was on our right, sending strong rays from the west. “We can’t have you burning up, now.”
“There’s only enough shade for one of us, honey. You sure?” She scooted to the shaded corner.
“I need a tan anyway. Been spending this whole year under office lights.”
A boat drove up toward the dock, past a mangrove in the water. A black Labrador sat on the bow. Once the captain parked his boat, the dog stepped onto the wooden dock, his tail wagging. Water dripped from his coat onto the old wood, and all the diners smiled at the dog — the star of the show.
I turned toward the mangrove and noticed a pelican nest. A mother pelican, the back of her neck a dirty orange, nested with two baby pelicans. They were gray-skinned and, from our table, looked like little aliens.
“Here’s that clam chowder, honey,” the server said, dropping down a styrofoam cup of steaming chowder.
“Thanks.”
“Honey,” my partner said, mimicking the server’s voice as she opened the packet of oyster crackers. “That’s what I call you.”
“Oh, don’t get jealous now,” I teased. “That’s the southern hospitality.”
“Oh, I’m not jealous.”
The clam chowder solidified my divorce with the kosher diet. Thick and hearty with chunks of potato, it bore a dark, murky hue, nothing like the pale-white chowder from a can. Large chunks of clam meat went down smoothly.
“You like it?” She asked, twirling her spoon in the soup.
“I love it,” I answered, eyeing her. Her smile was gorgeous; it warmed my heart every time. Her eyes moved me, and her lust for life was contagious. I wish I had even half of that.
She felt like home, and I felt welcome.
Yet the relationship was fresh. I felt love blossoming, but we did not yet know all parts of each other. I had the subconscious feeling that, once she knew me, particularly the dark and ugly corners of myself, I would be discarded. So, I kept her at arm’s length to a degree. I kept a foot resting on the brakes.
A large pelican, with a huge wingspan almost the size of our table, flew over us before landing at the mangrove nest.
“I guess that’s dad,” I said.
“How can you tell the difference between the male and female?”
“The size. The male is much larger.”
After a few seconds, the male abruptly flew away from the nest, as if to demonstrate his masculinity on queue as he showcased his massive wingspan.
“Where is he going? He only just got home.” Her voice sounded soothing. It was one of the many reasons I had fallen for her. Her voice softened me like hard butter in a cast-iron.
“I don’t know. More mullets for the kids, maybe.”
“Key lime pie?” the server asked. She was admittedly a beauty, with tanned skin and dark hair.
“Yes, yes, yes,” my partner sang as the slice of key lime pie sat before her. “You have to try this, babe. I’m forcing you to eat everything you say you’ve never had or don’t like.”
“Alright.” I carved a bite with the plastic fork. The slice of pie had an ornate, flowery puff of cream in the center.
The piecrust crumbled with a single chew, then the sweet-and-tart filling melted in my mouth. The sweetness of the cream mixed with the lime’s acidity was the perfect delight in the hot sun.
I closed my eyes. “This is the best key lime pie I’ve had in my life.”
“Told you.”
I opened my eyes. The father pelican returned to the nest. He opened his bill wide, like an open tent, completely enveloping his two young. Only their little webbed feet remained visible underneath. The little birds poked their heads at the skin of his outstretched bill as he emptied some regurgitated fish into their beaks. They ate the fish meat eagerly.
“Wow,” my partner whispered. “Incredible.”
The sight disturbed me.
The father relaxed his bill and looked onward into the distance.
The mother bird rested her bill on the shoulder of the father. They almost looked human for a moment, embracing each other tenderly.
After a moment, the male pelican flew off again.
“There he goes,” she said.
“Yes.”
I watched him fly out of view. The sun began to set over the gulf, sending rays of orange, pink, and yellow toward us. I thought of that pelican for quite some time.
Joseph Corey is a technical writer by day and a fiction writer by night, with short stories published in literary magazines like Eastern Iowa Review, City.River.Tree, and Sleet Magazine, where his story, “Impacted,” was nominated for a Pushcart Prize. He lives in Bethesda, MD. Read more from Jospeh Corey at his website.
