1.a weight used to sink a fishing line or sounding line.
2.BASEBALLa pitch which drops markedly as it nears home plate.“he throws a sinker as hard as 92 mph”
3.a type of windsurfing board of insufficient buoyancy to support its crew unless moving fast.
The two went for coffee and sinkers. She was hesitant at first but he was calm and convincing. The sun was setting before they reached the diner and once inside they talked a long time. She pushed a limp rag of donut around her mug with a small steel spoon, watching it sink before fishing it out to let it sink again. He told her about his life. About his family, his work, the car he wanted to buy, the sports he followed. Lies, all of it. She listened with a distracted, uncomfortable air as though not quite at home in conversation. The night gathered softly about them, the rows of windows fading from paled silver into imperfect mirrors which cast only their own images, returned to them bathed gold and yellowed and caught twice, not quite aligned with not a sight from without. He asked the man behind her not to smoke so close and she said she made no mind of it as her father smoked constantly. He asked her opinions on culture and she considered him impressive in his knowledge. Two men seated at the bar watching a baseball game occur across the country broke into a heated argument and she said she ought be home by now. He convinced her to walk with him and so they did, out the diner where they stood a while in the lot, leaning against the bumper of a truck and looking out over the city. He touched her bare arm and she felt the soft brush of his warm fingers against the cool evening air.
She didn’t tell her father about him. To her mother she told only that she had met a nice man and they had talked outside a diner. And that only because she had half-mentioned it in a distracted moment. He sister later told how she could tell something had come over her, but knew no more than that.
The two met again, as they had devised, a week later, outside the same diner. At his suggestion they took a walk down towards the seafront where they drawled up and down the arcade then further out the city towards the cliff sides where they watched recreational fishermen labor line after line far out toward the horizon. He told her she was pretty and she blushed as young girls do, unprepared. He touched again her arm and she tasted fresh mint and something foul like rot in his mouth. He said they aught take a walk up a path he knew where they could look down over the city and the ocean. Up winding concrete stairs left cracking and salt bitten where thick sea brush and weeds crawled between small cracks, widening them. Darkness bit and out away from the lights and the people it was cool and quiet. She felt his hand rest on the back of her neck, his thumb wrapped about, just barely nudging her esophagus, another sinker set for the ocean bound in fishing lines and weights.