He sits in a boat whose cracked grey paint is flaking off in about a dozen places above the waterline (and who knows how many below).
He pulls up an ancient fiberglass fishing rod with a touchy reel and casts his line into the unmoving blueish opaque pond. The lure lands and does not splash as much as creates a thick deep noise, sinking quickly out of sight. That sound always bugs him.
He looks up at the stars.
Well, star.
Just one.
Sort of a pathetic mauve thing, weakly twinkling in the twilight sky. He remember there were more, but with time they went away. Like guests who tired of a dying party.
The pond with it’s dry sparse reeds doesn’t stir.
He takes a moderately deep slow breath through his nostrils. The water, or whatever it is, smells faintly of laundry soap over the scent of mildew. ‘April Fresh’ it was called it on TV. Back when months had smells that could be bottled.
He fails to remember March’s smell.
Something tugs at his lure. This was a first.
He’s not sure he likes this now.