Prose: “Salmon Head Soup” by Jen Ippensen

He didn’t see me when he arrived at the restaurant, but I recognized him from the picture my mother had shown me. It was her idea, to get back out there, to set me up with her coworker’s nephew. “Girl,” she’d said, “you just need to find the right man.”

     At our table, while the nephew summarized his resume, I looked at the menu. Just when I thought he might launch into listing his references, he asked, “Have you been here before?” I shook my head but didn’t tell him I haven’t been anywhere with anyone, not since Ginny.

     “The grilled chicken and garlic mashed look good,” I said, in need of comfort food.

     “You have to have the salmon-head soup,” he said. “You’ll love it. They use fresh dill.”

     I don’t like dill, but I didn’t bother telling him.

     “Markets are down again,” he was saying. “Guys at the office are worried, but I say, ‘Sit tight, and it’ll be alright.’ That’s my motto.”

     I don’t know that it counts as a motto, but Ginny loved saying, “crudité display.” On Sunday afternoons she’d set out a veggie platter with dill dip and dance around saying it: crudité display, crudité display. Once, without thinking, I scooped up some dill dip with a bit of celery and popped it right in my mouth. Ginny laughed and laughed at the face I made, until we were both lying on the kitchen floor, tears streaming, stomach muscles joyfully screaming.

     “What those limp dicks don’t realize is the opportunity. While they’re cutting their losses,” he paused to laugh but I didn’t know what was funny, “I’m buying shit cheap,” he said. “Just wait. Won’t be long and we’ll eat like this every night.”

     Somewhere inside me, a warning rang out: proceed with caution. It sounded like he expected a second date, a third, fourth, fifth.

     After the dill-face incident, Ginny made a hand-drawn caution sign to set out with her dill dip on Sundays. She also started mixing up tubs of ranch, as a welcome alternative.

     Our server slid a steaming bowl in front of me. “Be careful,” she said.

     Dill seeds floated in the broth, tiny waves lapping them against the fish-head island in the center of the bowl. Across the table the nephew slurped up a spoonful.

     I remembered then an insult we used to use—dillweed.

     Dillweed, I thought and laughed, a sharp little sound escaping my throat, while the salmon head bobbed in its broth, dead eyes staring right past me.

Jen Ippensen (she/her) lives and writes in Nebraska. She holds an MFA in creative writing from the University of Nebraska. You can find her at www.jenippensen.com or on Twitter @jippensen.