It doesn't taste or smell like fish as I was told by my
elders when I was a kid, the slick-haired older boys with leather jackets,
jeans and, boots, bosting of the meals they frequently consumed in the back
seats of convertibles along Lovers Lane, leaving me to wonder what the
attraction was, with me eating fish on Fridays or during Lent when my family
refused to cook anything else, so when I got the opportunity to taste the dish
older boys ached to devour, I was surprised, delighted, not like fish at all,
sweeter like moist peach, slightly overripe, wetness clinging to my lips and my
tongue, juice dripping down my chin, not like fish at all, a dish I still ache
to eat, anytime day or night, Fridays or lent
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