A rush shuddered through the head-high brush and shot out ahead, a bunny! It bumped up higher than the SUV which shimmered with late-model power and never slowed as bunny thudded down into a grassy ditch.
Was it my walk scared the bunny out of the brush? Should I not slow down--or should I look in the ditch?
Something pink, exposed, twitched out of bunny's backside. Run, run, back to the house, where was that number? The animal rescue lady, somewhere in my book.
Somewhere in my book is another number, one I cannot forget. It is the number of a person who convinced me he thought I was fascinating. It made me wet all the time, thinking I was fascinating.
That was before.
That was before the thing about the bunny.
The bunny, which I hoped was still alive, flopped limp when I lifted it onto the soft towel in the box like the rescue lady said, flopped more with every uphill step. Blood from its pink little nose began to dye the towel.
I wanted to make it better.
I had wanted to make things better between you and me. At one time, it seemed as though putting my mouth on your cock might help. The erection had disappeared, apparently because of something I said. I had wanted to be safe. I helped it twitch back pink and alive, but that was still not enough to save whatever had disappeared between us.
I still pine for whatever disappeared between us. I still pine for the illusion that I am fascinating.
I called the animal lady. I said, "How do you know when you should just give up?" She said, "You can sense when the soul has left the animal."
That's the trouble with these wildlife people, they're all fucking hippies.
I listened to the animal lady who told me to touch the bunny bare-handed. There was an unspeakable wild, warm softness!--more like life than anything I have ever touched and yet the rib cage did not move.
I tried my best to bury bunny. There were lots of rocks wherever I put my shovel. Its little grave was shallow but I put some wilting gladiolas and said a prayer for the bunny's spirit just like the animal lady said.
That's the trouble with me, I'm really a fucking hippie.
There were rocks and roots of trees wherever I put my shovel and if I hurt the root of a tree I was hurting something living for something that was dead.
My husband knows I pine for you. I know he finds me fascinating.