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The Fish on the Truck
Lila wanted one yes before lunch. She wanted the manager to let her buy fish from the boats under the hotel, already drawn up on the sand, instead of the boxes on the truck from the capital. Guests asked every evening where the fish was from. The menu said catch of the day. The fish she was told to cook sat in a freezer.
The truck was early. The driver knew her name and carried the same list as last week and the week before: fish, rice, oil, and the small sealed puddings the buffet set out in a row. She did not sign. She opened one box. The fish was cold, gray at the edges, and labeled from a port she had never seen. It would feed the room. Payment for it would go