He casts his line into the still black water and watches the ripples grow around the rowboat infused with a shimmer of moonlight. He doesn’t spend much time recasting. There will be no fish today; there are never any fish. The fish are not the point.
Below him, somewhere, deep in the black, she sleeps. She knows when he comes, knows he’s there, knows he’s waiting. There’s a thing between them that can’t be washed away by water and time. He feels her presence; he smiles. His fingers spin the reel slowly, playing out line.
She never bites. Not yet.