A package waiting on the doorstep. Must be the first.
"First of the month, fish of the month," he thought.
Every month the same card, "Happy 30th, Dad & Rita." He was 33.
He’s not fond of the fish, but he’s not fond of decorating or explaining himself at Christmas, so he hangs them up. Rows of mounted fish, having filled the hall, begin to creep into the guest room where they will unsettle holiday guests. Not least Rita, who had long forgotten her gift of what she'd assumed would be food.
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