Hate Mail

by Donna Marchetti

I watch him for a moment, wondering what the catch is. This man can’t possibly be this perfect. Fosters kittens, heals sick dolphins, and has a body built like a Greek god? He has to be married, or maybe he has a crazy ex-wife. Or maybe he lost his penis in a terrible accident as a child. Maybe a whale at SeaWorld jumped out of the water and bit it off. But that wouldn’t make sense with his current career choice. Unless he chose this path as a twisted long-term plan to get revenge on the whales.

“How do you know there aren’t any sharks?” I ask. “There could be, but we’ll be safe. Sharks prefer redheads. The color reminds them of blood.” “What? I’m a redhead!” He grabs onto a lock of my hair and examines it. “Damn. You are. Don’t worry, though. While the sharks are distracted with you, I’ll swim ashore and get help.”

“Are you serious? So when I asked if you were bowling upstairs, this is what I was hearing? And you didn’t think to tell me that you had two tiny kitten versions of Tony Hawk skating around up there all day?”