The Fishermen

"Really, I prefer a woman with good looks from head to toe," Trent piped in. "She's got to be as shiny as a new penny and as fine as silk. I don't care if she's not got a lot upstairs, can't add two and two and so forth. She's gotta be hot." Trent, of course, was the fisherman who sought trophies. He'd put his catch of the day on a piece of varnished wood and hang it up in his den, just proud of its beauty. This method served him well in his dating life, because he usually could be found with a different young, beautiful woman on any given Saturday night. However, the trysts never led to much else because of intellectual incompatibility. Trent wanted his trophy girlfriends to cook for him, and that takes a few brain cells.

"You guys have it all wrong. I like to cast a wide net and take home whatever's in it," Bob countered. His fishing method was closest to their professional technique, letting the large spooled nets capture whatever fish, flotsam, jetsom and trash the sea offered. He got a lot of dates – some good, some dreadful – but the quantity is what kept him happy, he told himself. "You guys going after the big fish means there are times you're not going to catch a dern thing."

Ned sat quietly, contemplating the bottom of his beer mug.

"Ned, you old fossil! Why aren't you adding your two cents' worth? You're the only one who's not offered up wisdom on fishing," Trent said, goading his work buddy to action.

Ned polished off his beer, swallowing slowly. "Well," he said carefully. "I think the secret to being happy is to not think of chasing women as fishing."

The other three weighed his words for a full minute, but then broke down laughing in loud, obnoxious guffaws – punctuated by beer-tinged spittle flying from their gaping mouths.

"You take the cake, Ned," French snorted. "Why, that's why you have to go back to Camilla every night. You're not a very sporting man, you hate trophies, and it's only been her for more than 20 years. I say that's a sad, sad life you live, Ned. And tonight I'll think of you while I'm laying next to that waitress with the enormous booty, stroking her naked thigh and cupping her left breast in my hand."

Ned smiled and winked. "Well, guys, I guess I'll see you tomorrow." He edged off his stool and headed toward the door.

"Wait, man! Aren't you going to tell us any stories about being stuck in a dead-end marriage? Come on! We were kidding! Come back, Ned!" Bob hollered after their friend, but he didn't turn around. "I guess," he said to his two remaining buddies, "ol' Ned can't take a joke."

The three ordered another round and sat silently for a few minutes.

Trent was the first to speak. "Well, I guess I'd better head home, too. Got another long day tomorrow."

"Yeah, me, too," Bob said, draining his glass. "Are ya comin', Frenchy?"

"Naw, I think I'll stay and bait another hook for that waitress over there," French said solemnly. He smiled as Bob and Trent made their way out of the bar. French looked over at the waitress and his grin widened. She turned toward him with a tray of clean glasses, fire in her eyes, and he backed down without a word.

French took out his wallet and put down a 20 to cover his tab. Something small and rectangular was stuck to the bill, and it fluttered to the floor. French snatched it up hurriedly in his palm, settling back onto his stool. He gazed at the black-and-white image of the young blonde girl in her early 20s with that wide smile and dimples, white cotton dress clinging to her shoulders. Tears pooled in the corners of his eyes, and French sighed deeply. He carefully tucked the photo behind his driver's license and crammed his wallet back into his back pocket.

He stood, looking around the dimly lit and mostly empty bar to make sure no one had noticed him almost start to cry. A fisherman never forgets the one who got away.