Excerpt of Mud Vein by Tarryn Fisher

A week later we took our first trip into Seattle together.
It was her idea. We rode in my car since she said she didn't
have one. She looked nervous sitting in the front seat with
her hands folded in her lap. When I asked her if she wanted
me to put the radio on she said no. We ate Russian pastries
from paper bags and watched the ferries cross the sound,
shivering and standing as close as we could get to each
other. Our fingers were so greasy when we were done we had
to rinse them off in a water fountain. She laughed when I
splashed water in her face. I could have written another ten
thousand words just from hearing her laugh. We bought five
pounds of prawns from the market and headed back to my
house. I don’t know why the hell I asked for five pounds,
but it sounded like a good idea at the time.

“You have one of these,” I said, as we were cleaning the
prawns together at my kitchen sink. I ran my finger
laterally along its body, pointing out the dark line that
needed to be cleaned out. She frowned, looking down at the
prawn she was holding.

“It’s called a mud vein.”

“A mud vein,” she repeated. “Doesn't sound like a compliment.”

“Maybe not to some people.”

She de-headed her shrimp with a flick of her knife and
tossed it in the bowl.

“It’s your darkness that pulls me in. Your mud vein. But
sometimes having a mud vein will kill you.”

She set down the knife and washed her hands, drying them on
the back of her jeans.

“I have to go.”

“Sure,” I said. I didn't move until I heard the screen door
slam. I wasn't upset that my words had run her off. She
didn't like to be found out. But she’d be back.