The Fishmonger

How he used to horrify me decapitating fish with a chopper Afterwards the heads would stare and gape at the witnesses who queued with worn purses for sprats and sole and finnan haddock, slapped in a scale, wrapped in newsprint, slid, stinking, obscene into shoppers. The blood surprised me, soaking the sawdust and the way the fishmonger flirted, wiping on filthy trousers his reeking, slimy hands.