Seven scarves swirled under the sea. Like electric eels, their colors pulsing and brilliant desire of her yearning. Farther below, stinky and battered near the pit of thunderbolts, the hammer-head shark waited. Battle- scarred with a fist-sized chunk missing off the left side of his great hammer, he lay hidden and patient as he relished the scent of dinner on its way: the seven scarves were telling him, heralding the good news.
Then with a muted crash and a flurry of bubbles and movement, dinner dove into the icy water, long slender fingers catching and twisting the tassels of the first two scarves, the grey striped one and the sparkling one, wrapping them around his hand. One by one he twirled the other five, wrestling near the pit of thunderbolts as the gold one refused to come. Its shimmering, undulating tassels caught tight in the snapped-shut mouth of a greedy oyster.
The cunning old shark smelled the obstinate scarf-diver’s pheromones as he struggled to dislodge the gold tassels, running out of air.
With a quiet swish of his powerful tail, the shark left his hiding place with the stealth of a seasoned hunter.
The seven scarves no longer floated. Only the gold one quivered as the diver tugged. A tug-o’-war between man and nature. He never saw the shark – he tugged.
He never realized, so intent had he been on the rescue of his lover’s seven scarves…