Bob Fogarty had run his crabber out of St. Verlaine for as long as anyone living there could remember. Everybody liked Bob. He always had a story, and when the whisky was flowing good, most likely a song or two.
Then there was May Fogarty, like chalk to Bob’s cheese she was. Always rubbed folks up the wrong way. Never had a good word to say about anyone or anything – most especially not her Bob. But it didn’t stop them having their ten kids, didn’t stop them staying together while other families drifted apart. Deep down they just loved each other I suppose.
These words form my entry into Friday Fictioneers photo prompt challenge.
It’s an old prompt, but a new story. No re-treads on here