Maybe she is a crook, dutifully hunting for her next bite on the whim of the prodding sea air. My nibble on her lure is sincere and swearing. We promise our unmasked selves, our vast insecurities. Watching the fish make circles around the glimmering plastic was a pleasant pastime of mine, for their watery dashes would stay permanent in the sea, like the lines of a pencil filled in a playbook, and sometimes I would tease them and erase their marks with a quick flutter of my tailfin through their plans. She, the fisherman, would come daily, early in the morning when the sun barely cast itself through the cold, cold water, but don’t mind me, for I guess the water is below a…