Scalloped Fisherman Tears

Even as the creature's webbed hand clasped around his ankle, pulling deeper into the water, Frank did not scream. Instead, he took a moment to consider his life. His sunny childhood with his father, boyhood accomplices. Eating Granny Smiths in the branches of his backyard's tree. He recalled when he'd first met Mary, just twenty two years old. How she'd made him sway from the moment she'd looked at him. Their plan was to start a new life by the sea, taste the salt with their eggs and feed seagulls by hand. Chin bobbing against the tide, saltwater flooded Frank's nose, burning, but he paid no mind. His eyes had glazed over, lost in the memory. He recalled how his heart had splintered when he'd found her in their bed, and realized the truth of it all: that she'd wanted that life, but not with him. How he'd stifled his cry and turned away from the noises, running to the water without a second thought. Behind him, on land, Frank knew she was still in that bed, with the man that wasn't him.