The endless Fish on the rocky Beach

"I was sitting at a dark wooden table in the middle of a rocky beach, trying to remember if I had brought my passport. Someone I didn't recognize placed a large silver platter in front of me with a whole baked fish on it, glistening with lemon slices. I took a forkful of the flaky white fish and ate it, but as I chewed, I realized I couldn't taste anything at all—it felt like cold water dissolving in my mouth. I kept eating anyway because I knew I had to finish it before the tide came in, but every time I took a bite, the fish on the plate stayed completely whole, like I hadn't touched it. Suddenly I wasn't at the beach anymore; I was sitting in the backseat of a moving bus, holding a paper plate with tiny silver scales stuck to my fingers. My hands smelled like salt water, and I couldn't figure out why everyone on the bus was quietly watching me, leaving me with this strange, disorienting knot of uncertainty in my throat."