Pink Corner

The fish are very excited.

Up above, the largest gang war in Argentine history is going on. Dark, knife-wielding men in hand-knitted shawls are flashing dangerous and edged through the plazas and cafés, but down in the cool water the fish only know that so many new people are coming to visit.

“Hi!” say the fish, as someone floats down. “What’s your name?”

“Brazzi,” says the man, his voice stirred to life by the current. “Lucca Brazzi. For six years no one spoke my name above a whisper, and for six years I danced the tango in the crowded bars in an empty, respectful space. For six years there was no one more deadly, no one more loved. Young boys cut themselves to match my scars.” Brazzi sighs, and the fish flash around him, silvery curious. “It took four of them, three in front that I could have taken and one in back who will brag and wear my knife for a night, no more, before he too comes to these slow waters.” His dead eyes flash proudly, and the fish, the little cheerful fish, dart in and out, nibble delicately where the great gape of his gut is.