A ten year old boy
A ten year old boy grabs the fishing gear catalogue from the floor by the door where it fell through the slot. He takes it to the living room with blanket milk and cookies flops down on bony elbows and flips through glossy pages upon pages of lures like jewels and reels of alloyed aluminum and turned titanium perfected machines for catching fish finders that now show not just blips in the blue but what the fish themselves are eating and what they ate last night and how they feel about the weather spool upon box upon spindle of line and tippet and leader floating sinking and mid-level lines of every kind rods of every conceivable length and type and quality and material and portability and boxes and bags for all this inconceivable variety of glorious gear and vests with a thousand pockets and purpose-built hats and hip-boots and waders to wear while using it all and a man, forty-two years of age, puts down this glamour-mag for guys, this piece of Piscean porn, vaguely disappointed in his new-found disinterest, wipes, stands up, pulls up his pants and flushes. ...puttin' the
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