Buckets of blood had been lined up along the edge of the pier but the charter boat was running over an hour late.  Annoyed, both Robert and Craig finally agreed that the shark fishing excursion must've been called off.  Other people had been waiting, too, got disgusted and wandered away.

     "Melissa loves getting up at five in the morning for nothing.  Don't you babe?"  Robert tweaked my chin, stage-whispering darling at Craig; just loud enough for me to hear. 

      "Will you check out that sky," said Craig blushing like a school boy.            

      Dirty-looking clouds blotted out any trace of blue.  As I knelt on the dock, taking ointment from my camera bag and smearing it across sunburned lips, I was thinking that the sky over the ocean should have lots of blue.  Especially an August sky — crowded with para-sailors, planes sky-writing, gulls, more planes pulling beer banners: a sky where collision seemed imminent.   

     "I'm getting cramps."  Still squatting, I rocked back on my heels.      

     "It's simple math," Robert was saying.  He stared into one of the buckets, his short, muscled legs splayed, index finger jabbing the air as he counted down the line of them.  "Nine.  Not enough.  You need a trough of blood to catch a single shark."

     Blood.  I made a face swallowing what felt like the contents of my empty stomach rising.  From strong wind the inlet rippled a thick gray aspic.  I was picturing the slippery deck, the three of us clinging to the rail, riding out heavy chop.  Me trying to hold my camera steady. 

     Coffee and cruellers, I thought getting to my feet.  Coffee and cruellers from the shack down the road would suit me just about fine.  I despised shark fishing.  Tossing blood to lure those voracious creatures close to the boat.  Horrible stuff.  But Robert wanted photos.  Nothing kitschy, he'd warned me — none of those mere mortal man posed next to great big dead shark.  Make them artful were his instructions.            

     Artful.  On the blustery dock I gave him a mock salute:  "Aye-aye El Capitan." 

     Focused on the buckets, Robert ignored my sarcasm.  Undoubtedly envisioning himself reeling in a Great White.  Singlehandedly!  You'd be lucky to catch a baby Sand Shark I was thinking, as he continued to mull over the blood, moving down the dock toe to toe with the line of buckets — Robert, as usual, expecting the unexpected; it was his way. 

     Unconscious, rhythmically, his hand stroked his ass. Grudgingly I thought: It is a nice ass.  My eyes following the curve of it, under the soft, made-to-look-worn-out fabric of his shorts — a geometric pattern like bricks piled haphazardly, in a powdery orange-sand color.  Everything outlined black.  I didn't much care for the pattern.

     Reminded me of dusty, uneven places — places the newspaper sent me to take pictures during times of conflict. 

     Around his waist Robert had fastened a strip of woven jute tied in a crude knot.  Who are you kidding, I thought.  "You know, Robert, you can afford a conventional belt."       

     Craig nodded, rolling his eyes.  But Robert just laughed; revealing the gap between his front teeth that everyone found so sexy.  "Melissa," and he smiled wider, "I know what I can afford."                   

     I made a face.  Sorry I let him talk me into coming and screw his big-deal, sportsman photo shoot anyway.  Take them yourself, I was thinking, the wind slapping my hair in my face as the inlet peaked more and more white caps.  

     Craig had inched closer to Robert snuggling against him.  Craig, the tawny male lioness.  Quite a bit taller than Robert, who had to reach up in order to sling an arm around Craig's shoulder.  Ridiculous looking, the two of them standing so uneven like that.  Can't you two wait? I was thinking.

     "It's simple math."  Robert dropped his arm and began pacing the dock.  "Figure it out.  Multiply the passenger load times the length of the boat times the square root of the tonnage.  There's your correct amount of blood."

     "Blood!"  I screeched.  "God, Robert."        

     Craig flashed his deep dimples.  "Robert, you're full of shit."                                                      

     "As usual," I added. 

     Secretly I'd been comparing my milky-white legs, that hardly tanned, to Craig's long legs in white shorts.  Craig tanned golden.  Craig was the golden boy.  I was The Blonde.  Robert's pet-name for me. 

     Of the three of us, Robert tanned darkest.  So dark his skin took on an almost purple cast.  Exotic was a word often used when Robert came up in conversation.  His rumpled clothes fit him perfectly and cost a small fortune.  He gave off a smell like some rare, extinct spice dug out of a centuries-old chest: recovered from a shipwreck and dragged ashore by zealous divers certain of finding treasure.  His vintage Bentley was well known to these parts.  Classic maroon with a dull sheen. 

     I've known Robert a long time.  His family and mine used to summer in Winslet Cove.  He was my twin brother Henry's first lover — back in their early twenties.  And because I know Robert, I should know to stay away from him. 

     Last night he phoned, talked me into meeting him at Weevils, saying that Craig had deserted him to shoot pool with some local ruffians — Robert's stab at a little humor.