Ninety years of Galveston sun reign in her flesh like a bronze tattoo needled indelibly into her face, arms, and legs. Her throat's adorned with a choker of perfect sharks' teeth, hard, imperturbable as her squinty gaze. Daily, during the summer months,
she takes fresh chicken necks, yanks string around them tight as tourniquets, grabs net and bucket and prances the few yards from her shanty to the surf. With nothing but her sense of touch, she works her stringed necks like a master, easing the net under the bellies of greedy crabs
and shaking them violently to the bottom of her bucket. As she waits for the next strike, she fixes her gaze on the sea, matching its brute indifference with the iciness of her stare, the crabs clacking in the bucket like dominoes shuffled by the age-blotched hands of old men,
fueling her dream of dropping big blue males into a bubbling stockpot flaring her nostrils with crab-boil, reddening their blue in but minutes, their sweet, white meat but briefly satisfying to her appetite as the seven feckless husbands whose cremated bodies she's dumped into the sea.