He eats mackerel, smoked and peppered, from a vacuum-packed packet. My mother used to buy them at Sainsbury’s; I liked running my fingers along the lumpy fillets.
He toasts a slice of bread, mashing fish onto one side for his supper. The old toaster has a filament missing and the right side is always more toasted than the left. He doesn’t mind which one the mackerel’s on.
In September, I come for tea. I watch his stiffened hand turn the toaster’s dial. At the fridge, he says, you remember my boat? that beach?
His knife slices the plastic packet open.
Love this very much - at the risk of pissing you off no end I wished the last sentence wasn’t there.