I’m still angry, but I agree to hunt scorpions with my husband. He thinks it’ll be fun to use the blacklight I got him for his birthday.
Dawn on the Serengeti. The watering hole is nearly empty. Leo devours the bacon-wrapped scallops in his Bloody Mary, orders another.
They decided, in the end, to dress as lions. The Government guidelines had been very specific about wearing animal pelts to avoid infection, but Josh was chair of the local wildlife trust, so they compromised and used the costumes from a recent production of Cats the musical.
Lily rubbed the fibres between her fingers, coarse like coir or horsehair. She flipped Ed’s recliner on its side. It sagged, not surprising the months he’d slept there, the stairs impossible. When the pain kept him awake, he’d sit, picking out constellations through his telescope.
The light’s hinged. You missed three texts last night. “It’s a salmon dawn,” you whisper, leaning close to wet-wipe Leonie’s chin. She stirs, sleep mucus pearling in the corners of her eyes.