The story
The wharf lamps painted the water coral and blue. I had intended to buy supper and go home. Instead I stood beside the dinghy watching a bright lure turn beneath the boards. This is how all my shortest evenings become long stories.
The first tug was small. The second suggested that someone underwater had changed their mind about the scale of the scene. A bass broke the surface in a shower of reflected colour. I forgot supper, the time and a perfectly good sentence.
The fish escaped with its dignity. I returned to the food stall with wet sleeves and an explanation that became more dramatic every time I rehearsed it. The cook gave me an extra napkin. Apparently I looked like a man who would need one.
No scoreboard could measure the amount of supper this adventure delayed.