(add your own next paragraph, I was damn well hoping this would be the first post in the Saltwater forum but I was done gone beat. Still everyone knows PNW FlY FISHING is where the hot romance chain stories are. And I will do my damndest to keep content that involves lust, trash, rotting vegetables and fruit, old shoes, seaglass, nitriles, and, obviously the catching of a shit ton of fish, and a bunch of undeniable clunky fan fiction going.)
Stonefish pulled his nitriles over his warm digits, cinched his hoody tight and looked over the cool waters of Puget Sound. He knew the fish would be here, he knew when, he knew what to tie on and where to throw. He studied the water, fished all sides of the tide, put the miles on his boots, knew how the winds altered the catching. He knew this because he had found such joy in solitude. Because, on the beach, there was nothing lonely or isolated or distant about it, the beach was everything, it was raw primal experience. IT was his and his alone, but for the yams and other shoes and stuff he knew he would collect on his return to his truck.
He did not realize that every step he took he was being watched. She was watching him, her hair the color of a trash bag, her lips like giant bloodworms, her breasts the size of puget sound coconuts, her voice as warm and as inviting as a jet ski hitting a wake. She dabbed the perfume behind her ears. Her ears looked like cauliflowers covered in shredded pieces of trash bag. She pulled her swimsuit up tighter around her broad shoulders, straightened her back and prepared to march her way down to the beach, to the place where the seaglass was. To the place where she hoped she would not be so alone
Stonefish pulled his nitriles over his warm digits, cinched his hoody tight and looked over the cool waters of Puget Sound. He knew the fish would be here, he knew when, he knew what to tie on and where to throw. He studied the water, fished all sides of the tide, put the miles on his boots, knew how the winds altered the catching. He knew this because he had found such joy in solitude. Because, on the beach, there was nothing lonely or isolated or distant about it, the beach was everything, it was raw primal experience. IT was his and his alone, but for the yams and other shoes and stuff he knew he would collect on his return to his truck.
He did not realize that every step he took he was being watched. She was watching him, her hair the color of a trash bag, her lips like giant bloodworms, her breasts the size of puget sound coconuts, her voice as warm and as inviting as a jet ski hitting a wake. She dabbed the perfume behind her ears. Her ears looked like cauliflowers covered in shredded pieces of trash bag. She pulled her swimsuit up tighter around her broad shoulders, straightened her back and prepared to march her way down to the beach, to the place where the seaglass was. To the place where she hoped she would not be so alone
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