Guy Time

Four, five times a year, Dad and I went on fishing trips. “Guy time,” he told my mother.

There was more than fishing. At both motels and campgrounds, Dad often found female companions. I slept in the bathtub or truck.

I disliked stabbing worms so I switched to Velveeta and spinners. Dad rarely caught fish; he threw mine back or gave them away. “Catch and release,” he told Mom when we returned empty-handed.

“Guy time” ended when I left for college. But I didn’t forget Dad’s lessons. I’m never with any woman very long. Catch and release.

From: Friday Flash Fiction

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