My father thought a fishing boat would be fun. I put on a yellow plastic raincoat and hat, both a little too big, and stood straight and still the entire trip, no matter how the deck pitched. My father goaded me guiltily: "Don't you want to see what there is?" But I knew what there was. Water.

On the return trip, it started to rain. I couldn't have cared less, for I had worn plastic. All the while, my father stayed quiet, but I watched gigantic men haul in their catches, all of which ended up in piles, on the deck, before me. I watched the crates filled with ice. The fish looked less like animals and more like meat.

I remember this, what I'm thinking of, while I watch you push the octopus sushi into the dish of sauce. The chopsticks resist you, and I watch your tongue-tip meet your top lip, abstracted, in concentration. I cannot bear it any longer, and that is the moment I take your wrist.