She came back from her trip to the coast with tan legs and a long scar across her face.
We drank cocktails at midday, avoiding the obvious topic: the scar on her face. “Thank you for not getting fat,” I said in all seriousness. “You’re welcome,” she replied.
The scar told a violent story I only partially understood. I had never seen her drink more than two cocktails at a time. She finished her third–orange and pink, too much ice–and yanked her skirt down an inch. She must have caught me looking for tan lines.
“I was attacked by a shark,” she said. She had been too far out. She waved off the Coast Guard when they tried to retrieve her. She swam further. Then the attack.
“I think a bull shark attacked me,” she explained. I said nothing.
She pulled a pen from her purse and began sketching on the back of our bill.
“This is what a bull shark looks like.”
I examined the figure. “That’s my friend K,” I said.
“Well he’s dead now. The Coast Guard killed him.” She stood, yanked her skirt down again and left.
I grabbed my cellphone and punched his number in.
Voicemail.
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