A walnut split down the middle, halves in silent symbiosis on the table, meat turned toward the moist air, or perhaps she's not a walnut at all. Perhaps she's an onion to be peeled, skin rustling to the counter, fingernails digging into the underorb until there is nothing left but bad breath and a squinted gaze. Then again, she might be the cod on the fishing deck, gutted, a fish that breeds no more, a fish that breathes no more, a fish that swims no more. Cracked, peeled, and gutted. Maybe one, maybe two, maybe all three.
If the River Was Whiskey
T. C. Boyle