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“Disappearance” by Madison Scott-Clary [18+]
Transcript
Today I'm reading an adult story for mature listeners.
Speaker:If that's not your cup of tea,
Speaker:or if there are youngsters listening,
Speaker:you can skip this one and
Speaker:I'll have a new story for you next time.
Speaker:You’re listening to The Voice of Dog.
Speaker:I’m Khaki, your faithful fireside companion,
Speaker:and Today’s story is
Speaker:“Disappearance” by Madison Scott-Clary,
Speaker:which will be read for you by the author herself.
Speaker:Madison is an author,
Speaker:editor, and software engineer in the Pacific Northwest.
Speaker:She is the author of four books,
Speaker:including her most recent,
Speaker:ally, a mixed-media memoir.
Speaker:Many of her stories appear on her own podcast,
Speaker:which you can find as
Speaker:Makyo Writes wherever you get your podcasts.
Speaker:You can find out more about her
Speaker:on makyo.ink.
Speaker:Please enjoy “Disappearance”
Speaker:written and read for you
Speaker:by Madison Scott-Clary
Speaker:“This is going to sting.”
Speaker:I nod. “No, this is going to sting a lot.”
Speaker:That warrants a dry swallow and a second nod,
Speaker:more nervous this time.
Speaker:The first thing they’d done at the mod parlor was shave my fur.
Speaker:A smooth line back from my muzzle toward my ears.
Speaker:They’d gotten all of both of my cheeks,
Speaker:down to the jawline and up toward my ears, though not quite
Speaker:all the way. It’s not a good look for a weasel, this awful grooming.
Speaker:I’ll have to live.
Speaker:I suppose it’ll take a few months to go from stubbly to bristly and back toward soft,
Speaker:and then another few after that
Speaker:until I’m back to normal.
Speaker:Well, not normal. New.
Speaker:Different. “Alright,
Speaker:first bit,” the rat begins,
Speaker:tugging over the lower part of a milk jug that’s been cut in half.
Speaker:“Gonna get the bars super cold.
Speaker:You sure you want the straight lines?”
Speaker:“Yes.” I don’t sound sure,
Speaker:even to myself. The rat does that thing where he just sits still and silent,
Speaker:waiting on me. His ears have been tattooed black up along the backs, and the fluorescent lights shining through them cast blurred shadows,
Speaker:crenelated ideas of shapes.
Speaker:I sit up straight in my chair and give a firm nod.
Speaker:“Yes. Straight lines. Three on each cheek,
Speaker:spreading out toward the back of my head.”
Speaker:The rat waits a little longer, then cracks a goofy grin.
Speaker:“Good. Good choice.
Speaker:I’m gonna start the middle one a little further back. And I’ll use tapered ones rather than rectangular.
Speaker:It’ll make you look speedy.”
Speaker:We laugh at that,
Speaker:and I use the it to hide the terror.
Speaker:Not at the pain, mind, but at the sheer enormity
Speaker:of what I’m about to do.
Speaker:“Alright, lady.” The rat stands,
Speaker:pads across the room with claws clicking on linoleum.
Speaker:There’s a hissing, gurgling sound,
Speaker:a sound of something more complex than water being poured, and then a soft curse.
Speaker:A single curse is more a matter of form, though, and the lack of follow-up keeps me from panicking outright.
Speaker:The rat hurries back toward me,
Speaker:the half-jug in oven-mitt-clad paws billowing a sinking fog in his wake.
Speaker:This gets quickly set down on the steel table so he can shake the mitts off.
Speaker:The nitrogen fog continues its cascade,
Speaker:flowing over the table and onto the floor.
Speaker:From then, everything happens in quick succession.
Speaker:I’m laid out on my side.
Speaker:A thick petroleum jelly is smeared into the fur around my eyes, and a piece of aluminum foil massaged into that
Speaker:to create at least an attempt
Speaker:at a seal. Footsteps.
Speaker:A paw holds the foil in place.
Speaker:Another holds my muzzle down against a pillow in a sanitized paper pillowcase.
Speaker:A third, more spindly than the others, presses down on the side of my neck.
Speaker:Someone presses a rolled-up towel into my paws.
Speaker:Murmuring. A rush, a clatter, and then pain as something presses against my cheek.
Speaker:I grit my teeth, clench the terrycloth
Speaker:in my paws, and let out
Speaker:a sort of gurgled moan.
Speaker:Someone’s counting down.
Speaker:The pain leads with cold, then turns searing, and then is lost in a labyrinthine landscape.
Speaker:Sere, white, a sun too bright to look at,
Speaker:and the smell of snow.
Speaker:The countdown reaches zero, and the pressure against my face relaxes.
Speaker:That ‘something’ that was pressed against my cheek is lifted away, and someone murmurs dryly,
Speaker:“One down, five to go.”
Speaker:I spend the next half hour alternating between gasping for breath between each countdown
Speaker:and exploring that landscape:
Speaker:a tangled mess of chalk-white rocks,
Speaker:angular, thorny bushes with no leaves,
Speaker:lingering snow-scent,
Speaker:and a flute playing whistle-tones above it all.
Speaker:I’d never known how intricate pain could be.
Speaker:After the last countdown is finished and I am allowed to sit up once more,
Speaker:I finally allow myself a simple,
Speaker:“Fuck.” There’s laughter as the foil is pried away from my gummed-up fur and I blink my eyes back into focus.
Speaker:There’s the rat along with his accomplice, a weasel far taller than I,
Speaker:sitting on a stool with a kerchief keeping unkempt headfur out of his eyes.
Speaker:On the table by him, a short copper bar clamped into a stainless steel handle is still oozing tendrils of too-heavy fog.
Speaker:“Fuck,” I say again.
Speaker:“Stings, huh?” The weasel grins, and I recognize his voice from the countdown.
Speaker:“Uh…I guess.” I try to smile, feeling cold-burnt skin pull at my cheeks,
Speaker:and the smile turns into a wince.
Speaker:“Bit of an understatement.
Speaker:What does it look like?”
Speaker:The rat reaches to snag a mirror and hold it up to my face.
Speaker:Shaved cheeks—that much I’d seen
Speaker:—cutting fine brown fur almost down to the skin,
Speaker:and three bars on each cheek,
Speaker:radiating away from my whiskers toward the back of my head.
Speaker:The bars show up as patches of matted, crispy, burnt fur.
Speaker:“It’ll turn white soon enough,”
Speaker:the weasel says. He stretches out his arm and bunches up his sleeve, revealing simple coiling patterns of white fur amidst the brown of his fur.
Speaker:I’d seen it before in pictures
Speaker:(that being the reason I’d chosen this parlor),
Speaker:but seeing it in person made me all the more eager for the fur on my cheeks to grow back.
Speaker:“Now you just need some piercings.”
Speaker:The rat laughs as I shake my head.
Speaker:I pay in cash. They accept cards,
Speaker:but I had more than enough on hand.
Speaker:From the mod parlor, I head home to take care of the apartment.
Speaker:All the stuff I need is already in the car,
Speaker:packed into a backpack
Speaker:and a suitcase. Nothing from inside, of course.
Speaker:This all has to stay.
Speaker:Still, it’s good to make sure.
Speaker:Everything’s neat.
Speaker:Not too neat, of course, as I can’t keep up with Jarred’s standards, and he can’t keep up with the rate I make things messy.
Speaker:Stuff’s on shelves, dust free.
Speaker:Clothes are put away,
Speaker:but the hamper’s overflowing.
Speaker:The kitchen’s wiped clean, but there’s a stack of plates and glasses in the dirty half of the sink.
Speaker:Poor Jarred. Ah well.
Speaker:Once my account of the house is done, I begin to dismantle the life I’d built up for myself.
Speaker:I unwind it in slow, circular passes of the apartment,
Speaker:starting from the ground up.
Speaker:I carefully destroy
Speaker:what I was. I slowly untick a checklist, item by item,
Speaker:of the things that got me where I am,
Speaker:made me who I am.
Speaker:Drawers are tugged open and clothing strewn haphazardly about the floor.
Speaker:The bed sheets are pulled free of the mattress and shredded with my claws to look as though it was all done in haste.
Speaker:It’s not. It’s all careful.
Speaker:I have to be quiet for the neighbors, and I have to be deliberate for myself,
Speaker:even if it does feel like watching someone else work.
Speaker:The mattress is thrown askew as though someone had been digging for cash beneath it.
Speaker:The bathroom is mostly left alone,
Speaker:but pill bottles are dumped in the sink,
Speaker:looking like someone was hunting for something more interesting than aspirin.
Speaker:The top shelf of the closet is ransacked,
Speaker:with shoes tossed on the floor and the contents of my jewelry box tucked away in a backpack,
Speaker:along with Jarred’s nice watch.
Speaker:I didn’t care for the stuff, but I knew a burglar would.
Speaker:The living room is more difficult.
Speaker:We have a TV, which a burglar would latch onto immediately.
Speaker:I’d planned for this, though, and the TV is set neatly by my door while I see to the rest of the room.
Speaker:I tip over the speakers on their poles and scratch carefully crazed claw marks around their bases,
Speaker:a show of trying to detach them.
Speaker:They stay on the floor.
Speaker:The bookshelf is dismembered as quietly as I can manage.
Speaker:Books are pulled off in armloads and scattered around on the floor.
Speaker:One from every armful is bent
Speaker:and torn, my heart aching to do so.
Speaker:A yearbook tweaks memories and is discarded.
Speaker:Paintings are removed from their hooks and tossed on top of the books.
Speaker:The couch is shredded and exposed just as the bed had been.
Speaker:Nothing there, beneath those torn cushions.
Speaker:The kitchen is next.
Speaker:I step quietly over the pile of books and head on in.
Speaker:There’s a cursory pass of the fridge and cabinets: pushing glasses and food to the sides to expose the backs of them.
Speaker:My concession to looking hasty is to put a glass in a plastic bag and crush it under my foot,
Speaker:then scatter the shards over the counter and onto the floor.
Speaker:A very careful “whoops.”
Speaker:The garage had been my space, and is the last to get torn down.
Speaker:We’d rented half a duplex and paid extra for the side with the attached garage,
Speaker:which I’d claimed for all of my painting stuff,
Speaker:but which was under constant threat
Speaker:of being slowly consumed by junk.
Speaker:I eviscerate my old camping gear.
Speaker:I trusted Jarred to never pull himself away from his computer long enough to even consider camping.
Speaker:So much time at the keyboard,
Speaker:so little to spend elsewhere;
Speaker:so much time spent on him, so little
Speaker:on anyone else. My easel is easy to deal with:
Speaker:I just tip it over.
Speaker:The rickety thing clatters to pieces just shy of the front bumper of the car.
Speaker:A sketch of a painting,
Speaker:burgundy on black, tumbles askew.
Speaker:Boxes containing old clothes are turned out.
Speaker:A clock is broken most carefully.
Speaker:Jarred and I, we’d never hidden anything together,
Speaker:but I have to look thorough.
Speaker:On my own, though,
Speaker:I’d hidden cash. Just shy of twenty grand
Speaker:in a locking cash box disguised as a two-quart thermos tucked firmly into my old backpacking gear in the mess of our garage.
Speaker:Or it had been. Now it was tucked into the car,
Speaker:just behind the driver’s seat.
Speaker:My life isn’t completely unwound.
Speaker:Not yet. But I’m getting there.
Speaker:I reach in the car and grab a bag of odds-and-ends fur sweepings.
Speaker:Little bits snagged here and there from shedding coworkers.
Speaker:Some from a grooming place.
Speaker:Even a bit from the mod shop’s bin before I was shaved.
Speaker:I make a quick circle around the apartment,
Speaker:scattering fur on the most torn up bits
Speaker:I grab the TV on the way back to the garage
Speaker:—a flat screen thing that we only ever used for movies-----
Speaker:-and lay it down its back by the car.
Speaker:I give it a kick until it’s squarely behind one of the front wheels.
Speaker:Here we go. I climb in the car and hit the button to open the garage.
Speaker:When I reverse over the TV, there’s a delightful
Speaker:crunch. I can’t smile
Speaker:without my newly branded cheeks burning,
Speaker:so I breathe satisfaction out
Speaker:on a sigh. My paws ache
Speaker:all the way to Oregon.
Speaker:I had thought it would be pretty easy to slash up the inside of my car before I abandoned it, but they were tougher than I had imagined.
Speaker:I’d managed to come out of the experience without breaking any claws, at least.
Speaker:Once the seats had been shredded, I carefully cut my finger along the side and smeared blood along the clawmarks.
Speaker:The car was trashed as I rolled it into a ditch.
Speaker:There was a tiny forest there, with crumpled cans and paper wrappers mixed in with the fallen leaves.
Speaker:After thinking for a moment, I squeezed out a few more drops of blood
Speaker:onto that garbage.
Speaker:The bus driver had greeted me with the tired acknowledgement of a fox who had seen much worse
Speaker:than a sloppily dressed weasel with newly branded cheeks.
Speaker:I’d never been on a long-distance bus trip.
Speaker:Jarred and I had never been wealthy,
Speaker:never higher than lower-middle class,
Speaker:and this wasn’t helped by me having pretended to make fifteen-hundred less than I actually did a month at work,
Speaker:all that extra cash making its way into my thermos.
Speaker:A cross-country bus trip is unthinkable when you can fly,
Speaker:when you have a car.
Speaker:But you can buy bus tickets with cash.
Speaker:The seat is cramped.
Speaker:About what I’d expected, to be honest, but I wasn’t prepared for this quite as much as I thought.
Speaker:No one sits next to me,
Speaker:but I still felt hemmed in on every side.
Speaker:I tell myself to just enjoy myself,
Speaker:enjoy this new life.
Speaker:This non-life. This life
Speaker:without history. Hard to do when you are bumping down the road at sixty-five and no faster.
Speaker:I use the toilet
Speaker:as little as possible.
Speaker:I have made a huge mistake.
Speaker:If I were a smarter lady, I would’ve spent more energy figuring out what to do once I got here than what I spent on that hour of unwinding my previous life.
Speaker:I can stay here, of course. There’s a long-stay hotel that doesn’t side-eye my cash too much,
Speaker:and there’s a little kitchenette in the room with a two-burner stove that’s plenty for cooking for myself.
Speaker:Getting groceries with cash is as easy as expected.
Speaker:But I can’t get a job.
Speaker:If I were a smarter lady, I’d’ve changed my name before leaving,
Speaker:keeping it a secret from Jarred as best as possible…but
Speaker:even that isn’t smart.
Speaker:That would’ve tipped off investigators immediately.
Speaker:“Weasel changes name, weasels out of debt.”
Speaker:I can only imagine the headlines once I was caught.
Speaker:But I can’t get a job.
Speaker:I’m educated and all.
Speaker:I was a fantastic accountant,
Speaker:and it felt awesome to be one of the few who actually uses her college degree for what she does for a living
Speaker:and enjoys it. I worked for a few CPA offices and was on the short track to moving up at the last one.
Speaker:I’m fantastic with numbers, which is why I thought I had this all set.
Speaker:But I just can’t get a job.
Speaker:No one is going to hire an accountant with no name.
Speaker:With no history, no verified skills, no bank account, no credit, no social security number.
Speaker:No one is going to hire even the smartest weasel to run numbers if that weasel doesn’t legally exist
Speaker:—or is at least trying not to.
Speaker:Fuck. I can’t get a job,
Speaker:I can’t rent a place, I can’t open another bank account.
Speaker:I can’t even change my name, since that would mean engaging with my old identity,
Speaker:the one I’d tried to kill.
Speaker:Fuck. I can live here for a while.
Speaker:I ran the math on my recently-purchased calculator
Speaker:(cell phone was back in the car, of course—no more net for me, much as I can help it),
Speaker:and I can live here for maybe a year and a half.
Speaker:Longer, if I find a cheaper long-stay.
Speaker:At least I have time to try and fix this.
Speaker:The proprietor, Adam, and I have been getting on surprisingly well.
Speaker:He’s a good guy, which I hadn’t picked up on at first.
Speaker:I’d taken his silence while handing over my key as standoffishness.
Speaker:There was certainly an element of caution to it, but he’s also just a quiet guy.
Speaker:We exchanged nods daily for the first two weeks I lived here,
Speaker:then simple pleasantries for the next two.
Speaker:He came off as soft-spoken and content with where he was in life,
Speaker:and as far as I could tell,
Speaker:he was. A week or so into my second month staying in that little studio, and he’s invited me over to the patio behind the office
Speaker:(which I suppose is also his home)
Speaker:to discuss arrangements for the future.
Speaker:“Discussing arrangements,” however, has turned into sharing half a bottle of rum while sitting in deck chairs.
Speaker:The rum’s fantastic, but comes out of a vodka bottle.
Speaker:The glasses are half-pint canning jars.
Speaker:I can’t decide if it’s hipster or hippie,
Speaker:but the more I drink,
Speaker:the less it seems to matter.
Speaker:“So.” A pause to toss another cube of ice in his jar along with another inch of rum.
Speaker:“Why you out here?”
Speaker:I hesitate and swirl my own glass around,
Speaker:letting the melting ice water down the rum.
Speaker:It’s definitely overproof, and almost certainly homemade.
Speaker:“Needed out of where I was, I guess.”
Speaker:He does that thing
Speaker:—the thing that rat at the mod shop had done------where he simply waits in silence.
Speaker:There’s no shared glances,
Speaker:and the silence is comfortable,
Speaker:but also expectant. Maybe that’s a thing that people who are happy can do.
Speaker:“I needed out of that life.
Speaker:I packed my stuff and left without a word.”
Speaker:“You seem like you ain’t hurting for cash,”
Speaker:he says. “Well, no. I brought along enough to live out here for a while.” “Mm.”
Speaker:He looks at me over the rim of his glass as he sips at his rum.
Speaker:Otter expressions, I’m discovering, are close to weasel ones,
Speaker:but use the whiskers more.
Speaker:The look isn’t exactly crafty,
Speaker:but getting close, as he continues,
Speaker:“Problem with cash is no collateral.
Speaker:S’why I charge you up front.”
Speaker:I nod. It tallies. “But you seem straight.”
Speaker:“Straight?” A smile tugs at the healing brands on my cheeks.
Speaker:They’re starting to come in white.
Speaker:He laughs, “I ain’t making a pass at you, don’t worry.
Speaker:Sex ain’t a thing ‘round here.
Speaker:Not for me, at least.
Speaker:Hell, maybe you like girls too.
Speaker:Not my business.”
Speaker:He copies my swirl and we both enjoy the pleasant clinking of ice against glass.
Speaker:“No, I mean straight.
Speaker:You’re a good lady.
Speaker:You’re out here to get away, you say, and I trust that’s all you’re doing.
Speaker:No thieving, no running,
Speaker:you ain’t in trouble.”
Speaker:I settle back into the deck chair and attempt to use that ‘silence’ technique I keep running into.
Speaker:He just grins. “So what I’m asking is this.
Speaker:That number I said before?”
Speaker:He gestures behind himself, as though that’s where the past is.
Speaker:“I’ll cut it in half if you can do some work ‘round here.”
Speaker:“Work?” I tilt my head, turning over ideas of what that’d entail.
Speaker:“Sure. Work. What can you do to cut down your rent?”
Speaker:“Uh, I can…I mean, I was an accountant.
Speaker:I can run your books, file taxes, that stuff.”
Speaker:The minute I say “taxes,”
Speaker:Adam perks up and his whiskers bristle outward with his grin.
Speaker:“Deal. Sight unseen.
Speaker:I’m good at what I do, but that ain’t taxes.”
Speaker:I laugh, I can’t help it. “Half rent? For taxes?” “Sure,” he says, sounding content. “Run the books and handle taxes, and I’ll
Speaker:halve your rent.
Speaker:You can take the desk some days if you want a bit more off.”
Speaker:I rub my paw over the short, bristly fur of my cheeks,
Speaker:a habit I picked up as it grew back in.
Speaker:The crisped, branded patches had largely been replaced by normal, soft fur, now growing in white.
Speaker:All the shaved spots were taking a while to grow in.
Speaker:“A secretary, hmm?” “Well, sure.
Speaker:It ain’t grand. Accountant like you ain’t gonna find anything grand without being legit.”
Speaker:At that I fall silent.
Speaker:He continues, “Jobs these days, you need to be legit.
Speaker:You couldn’t offer me anything but cash,
Speaker:not even an ID to hold.
Speaker:You needed out of life so bad,
Speaker:you left behind your legitimacy.”
Speaker:My silence becomes darker,
Speaker:seems to close in around me.
Speaker:Ears pinned back,
Speaker:eyes burning, muscles tensed,
Speaker:I try not to visibly panic in front of Adam. “It’s okay,
Speaker:though.” He settles back into the Adirondack chair with a sigh.
Speaker:“You can get by without that.
Speaker:You’re just gonna have to let go of the idea that you’ll ever be a part of that world again.
Speaker:You might, but it’s best to expect you won’t.”
Speaker:From then on, it’s silence.
Speaker:I cry as quietly as I can.
Speaker:Adam pours me another inch of rum
Speaker:and leans across the table between us to tip another ice cube
Speaker:into my jar.
Speaker:Adam is set. He owns his property outright, and is up-to-date on all his licenses.
Speaker:Business is good. “Half rent,” for me, covers twice the cost of maintaining my studio—utilities, that share of property tax, everything.
Speaker:And he’s happy. With my stay here nearly doubled,
Speaker:I’ve started exploring further into town.
Speaker:We’re a ways out from Portland:
Speaker:I could take the regional bus there in about an hour and a half, but I never do.
Speaker:Instead, I stick to this little town I wound up in,
Speaker:a town picked because I got too anxious about Portland and got off the bus at the stop before.
Speaker:Probably my best idea yet.
Speaker:I’d just gone to the dinky supermarket before,
Speaker:but now I started taking walks.
Speaker:Originally, it had just been a “stretch the legs before shopping” exercise,
Speaker:but now I was even heading into town just to wander.
Speaker:There’s a neat little café with huge single-pane windows and a rocket stove that I’ve taken a liking to.
Speaker:Something about the impracticality of the windows combined with that adobe stove behind the bar tickles me.
Speaker:And as long as I stick to drip coffee, it’s not too much out of my budget.
Speaker:I even ventured to the lone grooming stop in town to get my cheeks checked up on.
Speaker:I had been worried that they’d be weirded out by them, but I was greeted by a punky opossum with a bright pink streak of fur from the tip of her snout down to the nape of her neck.
Speaker:She said my cheeks were looking good,
Speaker:then talked me into buying a tube of dye.
Speaker:She suggested pink, but I went for the blue instead.
Speaker:I don’t know why I did that.
Speaker:Being an accountant
Speaker:wasn’t just an occupation for me.
Speaker:It was a whole identity.
Speaker:I bought into the smart pantsuits and that sensible jewelry,
Speaker:the latter of which was still in my suitcase, to mark my position hard-core.
Speaker:The tight grooming and the calm speed of numbers,
Speaker:that’s who I was.
Speaker:Now, I don’t know.
Speaker:I have three pairs of jeans, a frowsy canvas skirt, and a bunch of long- and short-sleeved button up shirts and tees
Speaker:—only some of which fit well—I grabbed from a thrift store before this whole excursion began.
Speaker:Maybe I just figured I’d own it.
Speaker:I got the cheek brands, after all; might as well get the dye, too.
Speaker:Tonight, I’m dyeing a diamond shape into the white down my front.
Speaker:It’ll sit just above my breasts,
Speaker:with a tendril curling down beneath them,
Speaker:and another tendril curling up over my front to my neck.
Speaker:I can hide it with a scarf if I need,
Speaker:but otherwise, it’ll peek up from above my shirt.
Speaker:Just a little tease.
Speaker:One that could go “sexy” when I want,
Speaker:or just “artsy” otherwise.
Speaker:The thought’s actually quite embarrassing,
Speaker:but it’s been a long time since sex.
Speaker:Jarred and I were pretty into it at first,
Speaker:but then it became routine,
Speaker:and then scarce. We hadn’t fucked for a month before I took off,
Speaker:and since then I’d been too busy hiding to worry about it.
Speaker:With this new arrangement with Adam, though,
Speaker:I don’t know. Maybe being a little sexy will be okay.
Speaker:Holy shit, I may actually be able to pull this off.
Speaker:It’ll be crazy,
Speaker:but maybe I can do it.
Speaker:I guess Adam did some talking after I’d asked about more possibilities, and now I’ve got the owner of Starry Night,
Speaker:the town’s little café, as a “client” of sorts.
Speaker:He’s having me do the taxes and help run the books.
Speaker:He even offered to let me run the till if things get busy.
Speaker:They haven’t yet, but he’s promised me it’s still the off-season.
Speaker:Not cold enough to be winter, but not yet warm enough for holidays.
Speaker:He’s not paying me anything close to livable,
Speaker:but with the deal I’m getting on rent, I might just be able to do this.
Speaker:It’s such a small town.
Speaker:It looks bigger than it is, since so many of these kitschy stores and homes have so much space around them.
Speaker:The market has a parking lot twice the size it needs.
Speaker:There are folks living around the town in seclusion, I guess,
Speaker:but those who live in the town itself,
Speaker:who are the town, probably number in the low hundreds.
Speaker:Other than that, it’s just a waypoint.
Speaker:Folks heading up to the mountains stop through and keep all the businesses going,
Speaker:but they never stay long.
Speaker:They’re always on their way to more romantic locations
Speaker:or heading back through on their way back to the coast.
Speaker:The town itself holds together through the need to provide for all those who would only pass through.
Speaker:All those people on any one day, and it’s still a small town.
Speaker:I’ve started painting again, too.
Speaker:Starry Night has a drop ceiling and each tile is painted a different color.
Speaker:After I mentioned having been a painter in my “past life,”
Speaker:Stefan, the owner, perked up and sent me home with a blank tile,
Speaker:along with a few crusty tubes of acrylic and a brush that hadn’t been used in a while.
Speaker:“Go nuts,” he said, and so I did.
Speaker:Background of green and a symmetrical tree in black,
Speaker:limbs splitting into branches that became whisker-thin toward the edges of the tile.
Speaker:The leaves were vague suggestions of white that broke the symmetry.
Speaker:An idea of a tree.
Speaker:Just the type of stuff I painted
Speaker:up until four months ago.
Speaker:Stefan loved it,
Speaker:and here I am working on my second tile.
Speaker:This—working jobs all but off the grid,
Speaker:body mods, looking like a hippie
Speaker:—isn’t what I’d pictured when I unwound my previous life.
Speaker:Now, when I look back on it,
Speaker:on all my planning and scheming,
Speaker:I don’t think I had pictured anything.
Speaker:I’ve taken to working mornings at Starry Night and heading back to Adam’s after lunch to run the desk there.
Speaker:If it’s needed, I can even head back to Starry Night after to help out a bit more.
Speaker:We’re well into the busy season, so both the long-stay and the café are happy for whatever help they can get.
Speaker:An accountant running the till is a weird fit, but at least I’m fast at it.
Speaker:It’s interesting to watch the ebb and flow of traffic through the town.
Speaker:Starting about six in the morning, folks start trickling into town,
Speaker:but within an hour, it becomes busy, then frenetic.
Speaker:From there, it climbs steadily until about nine-thirty,
Speaker:dips for an hour, then picks up for lunch.
Speaker:I head out by one thirty or two to dash back to Adam’s and start getting folks checked in and out while Adam does property stuff.
Speaker:Usually, he’s out repairing the drive to the units (and the little one-room cabins in back, one of which I now inhabit).
Speaker:He’s intensely focused on that drive;
Speaker:he’s talked with me about the upkeep and maintenance of a dirt road for an hour or more on multiple occasions.
Speaker:I don’t drive anymore, so I just have to trust him.
Speaker:Things clear up by five, and sometimes I head back to Starry Night.
Speaker:At that point, it’s mostly a social thing.
Speaker:If I’m not chilling out back of the office with Adam,
Speaker:I’m here at the café.
Speaker:If not either, I’m painting.
Speaker:I’ve gotten about a third of the ceiling tiles done.
Speaker:The movement of people is fascinating up close,
Speaker:following the ways in which people move and change throughout the day.
Speaker:The before-coffees and the nine-AM-bounces and the post-lunch-siesta.
Speaker:The perking of ears and the bristling of whiskers.
Speaker:The droop of tails and stifled yawns.
Speaker:When you zoom out, though,
Speaker:it’s grains of sand just below high tide.
Speaker:The tide rolls in,
Speaker:and there’s a chaotic dance of spiraling movement.
Speaker:Each wave brings cars cycling around parking lots,
Speaker:small collisions of bodies, crimped tails, tantrums weighing down parents.
Speaker:And then tide rolls out,
Speaker:and the town settles back down into its ground state.
Speaker:Grains of sand compact nicely when left to dry,
Speaker:a comfortable stasis until the next high tide.
Speaker:In the midst of it all, the regulars provide a sense of weight,
Speaker:anchoring high and low tide to provide a sense of continuity.
Speaker:There’s Adam, of course, and Stefan.
Speaker:I suppose I’m slipping into that role too.
Speaker:We are the wave-polished stones.
Speaker:And then there’s Aurora.
Speaker:We’ve only talked once or twice in earnest, her voice familiar and quiet,
Speaker:but I watch her every day.
Speaker:She has a table all but reserved in the corner of Starry Night,
Speaker:farthest from the door but right in the elbow of two of those ridiculous single-pane windows.
Speaker:To her left, one window looks out over the parking lot and, across the street, the parking lot of the market.
Speaker:In front of her, three trees that have been planted too close to each other, forming a tiny grove between Starry Night and the back fence.
Speaker:She wafts in around six thirty and orders a latte,
Speaker:a soda water, and a pot of hot water for her and one of the teabags riding shotgun in her jacket pocket.
Speaker:If her table isn’t free, she’ll sip her latte at the bar until it is, and then set up camp.
Speaker:She drinks the latte first,
Speaker:then the soda water,
Speaker:then the tea. Once she’s finished the soda water, she pulls out a pen and either a book or a stack of printouts and a clipboard.
Speaker:I’ve never figured out what she does for work, but she’s always either taking notes or marking up printouts.
Speaker:A teacher, perhaps?
Speaker:An author? Editor?
Speaker:At noon, she orders another soda water and another pot of hot water for the second teabag.
Speaker:Some days she’ll pull out a sack lunch,
Speaker:some days she’ll order something from me
Speaker:—we serve a few simple sandwiches—in her comfortable contralto.
Speaker:She eats the lunch first,
Speaker:then drinks the soda water, then the tea. Once she’s finished the soda water, she settles back into the chair and stares out the windows.
Speaker:Mostly, she just looks at the trees, but sometimes she’ll rest a cheek on her fist and look out toward the market,
Speaker:her long canine ears canted cozily back.
Speaker:Something about the sight always has me watching her in turn.
Speaker:Something familiar,
Speaker:cozy. Then the coyote gets back to work, and, before long, I duck out to help Adam.
Speaker:On the few occasions I’ve stayed, Aurora will close out the shop with us,
Speaker:saying little but saying it kindly.
Speaker:Her silences, I expect, are a matter of course.
Speaker:They are absolute, and absolutely
Speaker:part of her. A stillness I can only dream of.
Speaker:I’ve never seen her out of the shop, but I think about her every time I walk or bus back home.
Speaker:I’ll have inevitably forgotten by the time I get inside, though, as she’s context-shifted
Speaker:around a corner of my mind.
Speaker:I’d imagined I’d done such a good job of cleansing my life of who I used to be when I left,
Speaker:that each time I’m confronted by something I’d accidentally brought along, it’s jarring,
Speaker:or even frightening.
Speaker:Undergarments had been the first such instance.
Speaker:I hadn’t thought to grab any new panties before leaving town.
Speaker:This was probably fine, I reasoned, because anything missing would have been noticed.
Speaker:Unfortunately, this left me with only one pair
Speaker:—the ones I left in
Speaker:—and I’d had to visit the “essentials” aisle of the supermarket
Speaker:early on to grab a pack of bland panties.
Speaker:They fit so poorly,
Speaker:I’d largely stopped wearing any.
Speaker:What had me jittery, though, was seeing that old pair every time I did laundry.
Speaker:One last reminder that I’m no longer who I was.
Speaker:I threw them out soon after.
Speaker:Each time I come across some remnant,
Speaker:it reminds me of what I’ve done, in a very tangible way,
Speaker:even if not necessarily why.
Speaker:The “why” had already begun to blur on the bus ride,
Speaker:and I’ve never been able to make it gel again.
Speaker:It’s not always negative, this process, but it’s never positive.
Speaker:Other than a few useful items—the jewelry, for instance , kept for something pawnable in an emergency
Speaker:—I throw everything I find away almost as soon as I find it,
Speaker:stopping only to destroy it for the catharsis.
Speaker:It’s all too much risk
Speaker:to keep around. Thus me,
Speaker:crouched on my haunches behind Starry Night,
Speaker:hyperventilating as I try to destroy my old driver’s license.
Speaker:How this had escaped me before was something of a mystery.
Speaker:An actual legal document bearing my actual legal name, tucked within my old wallet in the back of my suitcase,
Speaker:was not something
Speaker:I should have missed.
Speaker:This caromed straight into fear.
Speaker:Into terror. Into that agonizing sickness that settles into one’s gut and closes off one’s throat.
Speaker:I’d stopped crying as much, recently, and started smiling more, but I’m on the verge of panicked tears now.
Speaker:I can’t say what made me tuck the wallet into a pocket at the start of the day.
Speaker:It was an interesting artifact, perhaps,
Speaker:nothing big or important, that I decided to keep on some whim.
Speaker:The credit cards that had once filled it lay scattered by my abandoned car back home,
Speaker:after all, so I figured
Speaker:it must be safe. The license won’t tear.
Speaker:That was my first instinct, but my pads had slip off the slick plastic too easily,
Speaker:and my claw tips only scrabble ineffectually at its surface.
Speaker:I can bend it, at least, and I crease it this way and that in an attempt to fatigue the plastic enough that maybe I can snap it.
Speaker:ID cards are, apparently, designed to last, and despite repeated folds, I can’t get enough of a grip to tear the card, much less snap it,
Speaker:though the ink along the crease fades and warps into whiteness.
Speaker:I don’t have the leverage necessary to crease along my name,
Speaker:however. This isn’t working.
Speaker:I stuff my wallet back into my pocket and dash over to the dumpster, flipping up the lid.
Speaker:I had intended to tear up the license and toss it in with the coffee grounds and banana peels,
Speaker:but the thought of it slipping out of the dumpster or falling out of the trash truck feels inescapable.
Speaker:With all the people going through the café during the day, though, there has to be…
Speaker:I tear through two of the shop’s thin garbage bags before I find what I’m looking for:
Speaker:a cheap plastic lighter,
Speaker:yellow and scuffed.
Speaker:The rasp of the wheel against the flint sends my whole paw to buzzing,
Speaker:the snap of the spark too loud for my frazzled nerves.
Speaker:I flick at the lighter a few more times.
Speaker:It’s almost certainly dead,
Speaker:thrown away for a reason,
Speaker:so I just have to hope there’s enough fluid in there.
Speaker:The flame finally catches,
Speaker:only barely peeking above the rim of the lighter.
Speaker:It’ll have to do.
Speaker:Holding my breath and struggling to still my shaking paws, I carefully bring my driver’s license above the tiny flame,
Speaker:letting the diffuse glow settle beneath the photo of my face,
Speaker:the weasel there looking startled,
Speaker:backlit by flame.
Speaker:The plastic browns,
Speaker:sags, then starts to char and bubble.
Speaker:By the time the smoke, reeking of burning plastic, starts to make me cough,
Speaker:the image of my face and much the identifying details have melted away,
Speaker:the ink burnt off by the low flame of the lighter.
Speaker:Motion in the shadows cast against the dumpster catches my eye and I whirl around,
Speaker:Aurora startling back a half-step at my sudden movement.
Speaker:We stare, uncomprehending, at each other for a moment.
Speaker:“I—” I croak. “Hey.” “Hey, uh…you okay back here?”
Speaker:I look around, down to my mangled license and the shitty yellow lighter in my paw,
Speaker:back to the coyote,
Speaker:struggling to come up with an explanation.
Speaker:A half-truth is the best I can manage.
Speaker:“Needed to, uh…expired credit card
Speaker:and all. Melting it,
Speaker:I mean.” The quotidian mundanity of such an activity seems to click things into place for the coyote.
Speaker:She perks up and smiles,
Speaker:“I’d never thought of melting them before, I always
Speaker:just cut them into little pieces.”
Speaker:The lighter is finally starting to cool down in my paw after it’s extended use,
Speaker:which is good, given how much I keep fiddling with it.
Speaker:“Couldn’t find my scissors once I got out here,
Speaker:figured this would work.”
Speaker:She nods, squints toward my paws,
Speaker:then back up to me.
Speaker:“You from Idaho?” I gape,
Speaker:crumpling the license as best I can within my hand.
Speaker:“Just looked like my old card, I mean.”
Speaker:I do my best to keep my ears from flattening and tail bristling,
Speaker:only to catch myself panting.
Speaker:So much for acting cool.
Speaker:“I…yeah,” I gasp. “Moved a while back.”
Speaker:“Hey, no stress. I won’t pry,”
Speaker:Aurora laughs, holding up her paws disarmingly.
Speaker:I manage a smile, hoping it’s convincingly embarrassed.
Speaker:“Sorry,” I say, stuffing the lighter and warped card back into the garbage bag,
Speaker:before hauling the whole thing back into the dumpster.
Speaker:“I guess it’s just a weird thing to get caught doing.”
Speaker:Head tilted, Aurora grins at me a moment longer,
Speaker:then shrugs. “I guess, yeah.
Speaker:See you inside?” I nod,
Speaker:struggling to calm my breathing as I watch her round the corner to the front of the shop with a flick
Speaker:of her tail. When I make it back inside to prep her usual latte,
Speaker:Aurora smiles at me.
Speaker:I beam back to her.
Speaker:Something about the encounter by the dumpster has left me feeling
Speaker:giddy. Perhaps it was the thrill of nearly being caught, or maybe the relief of being rid of the thing.
Speaker:It’s one fewer identifying thing about me that I need to worry about, after all;
Speaker:and beyond that, it got Aurora laughing.
Speaker:Why that makes me so happy in turn
Speaker:is beyond me. My brush-strokes are confident,
Speaker:each one is a smooth arc describing edges and boundaries,
Speaker:or perhaps reinforcing color.
Speaker:The tile had been given to me burgundy, and I’d chosen to leave it that way,
Speaker:painting within that dark red surface rather than covering it up.
Speaker:I painted in black,
Speaker:and I painted only shadows,
Speaker:not details, as though the scene were blown out towards white
Speaker:and the contrast
Speaker:turned to a hundred percent.
Speaker:It had started as an abstract gesture of a face,
Speaker:angular and canine, but had slowly headed toward something more concrete.
Speaker:Not realistic, but perhaps something from a comic.
Speaker:Hard-edged lines,
Speaker:but true to form with no liberties taken.
Speaker:Aurora at her table as seen from the espresso machine,
Speaker:cheek on fist, staring out of frame.
Speaker:The shape of her muzzle, the tilt of her ears, both familiar
Speaker:and new. My brush-strokes are confident.
Speaker:Black and red, no need for another color.
Speaker:“Season’s winding down.” “Mmm.”
Speaker:Adam laughs and shakes his head, plopping down, then melting further into the deck chair.
Speaker:“S’good to see you painting, you know.” “Mmm.”
Speaker:I perk up as my mind parses meaning out of those sounds, and then flatten my ears.
Speaker:“Sorry. I got kinda into it.
Speaker:What’d you say before?”
Speaker:“Said season’s winding down.”
Speaker:“Yeah, seems like,” I offer as I carefully shift the painting off the table to lay it flat on the ground next to me,
Speaker:replacing the bucket of ice in its spot.
Speaker:My poor-weasel’s easel of the table between us returns to its former state as drinking space.
Speaker:I pour us both a drink.
Speaker:The otter has moved on from rum and is now trying his paw at whiskey.
Speaker:We’ve been cycling through batches over the last few weeks.
Speaker:The taste is far sweeter than I would’ve expected,
Speaker:but Adam says he doesn’t have the cuts quite right yet.
Speaker:In my mouth, ice machine ice and homemade whiskey jockey for space with words.
Speaker:“Wha’s li’ in off ‘easong?” “Eh?” I crunch down on the ice and brave the brain freeze to say more clearly,
Speaker:“What’s it like in the off season?”
Speaker:“Same but slower,” Adam says, chuckling down to his glass.
Speaker:“Way slower, some days.
Speaker:You got here before season started,
Speaker:but weren’t really here in the middle of off-season.
Speaker:I’ll probably beg your help deep-cleaning some of the units.”
Speaker:“Sure thing, boss.” I laugh as that gets me an ice-cube to the face.
Speaker:“Fine. Sure thing, master.”
Speaker:Adam makes as though he’ll throw the whole bucket of ice at me, before we both settle back into our chairs with jars of whiskey and ice,
Speaker:grinning. In the silence, I paint my claws idly with the black acrylic left on the brush from my work on the ceiling tile.
Speaker:The condensation off the glass thins the paint and it starts to seep into my fur.
Speaker:My paws are covered with the stuff anyway.
Speaker:The silence goes from comfortable
Speaker:to expectant, and when I look up, Adam’s adopted a vaguely confused look with whiskers smoothed back,
Speaker:which he’s directed toward his all-important drive.
Speaker:Just as I’m about to brush it off, he asks,
Speaker:“How’d you leave?”
Speaker:Anxiety brushes up against me,
Speaker:breaking through the veneer of calmness.
Speaker:It takes me a bit to respond, and I try to fill that space by nervously stirring the ice into my white whiskey.
Speaker:“If I just say ‘very carefully’, will that be enough?”
Speaker:The otter’s expression softens and he shrugs against the back of his chair.
Speaker:“I s’pose. Doesn’t mean I don’t still want to know.”
Speaker:“I just…I don’t know.
Speaker:I spent a lot of time thinking about all the different parts there were of my life
Speaker:and thinking about what I’d be without them.”
Speaker:I brush my paws over my cheeks, heedless of the paint.
Speaker:My fur has almost grown back completely,
Speaker:and the freeze-brand has indeed come in white.
Speaker:Still, it’s become a habit.
Speaker:“And then I just set a date and went around to all those parts one by one,
Speaker:turning them off or
Speaker:throwing them away.”
Speaker:“No going back, then?”
Speaker:“Not if I want to stay out of jail.”
Speaker:I don’t think this is true, but it sounds good.
Speaker:“So you turned off or trashed all these parts of who you were,”
Speaker:Adam mumbles, pouring himself another inch of whiskey.
Speaker:“What’s left?” I don’t answer.
Speaker:I don’t have an answer.
Speaker:When I think about it, there’s just
Speaker:nothing there. It’s like trying to see the inside of my eyelids. Just nothing there.
Speaker:I tore down what I was without any thought
Speaker:of what would be left.
Speaker:Even my license, that last proof of me-that-was, had long since burned.
Speaker:There was nothing after that.
Speaker:It was more a form of suicide
Speaker:than I’d wanted to admit.
Speaker:Finally, I shrug. “Just me, I guess.”
Speaker:Adam laughs at this and stretches his legs out, splaying webbed toes.
Speaker:“Fair enough. You do a good job around here, though.
Speaker:It feels like you belong now.
Speaker:I don’t know what you were like before, but you were scared out of your whiskers when you got here.
Speaker:Now you’re just you.”
Speaker:“A punky weasel living off the grid in a hippie town?”
Speaker:“That too, yeah. Took you a while to grow into the punky bit, but you’re getting there.”
Speaker:My turn to laugh.
Speaker:“Just missing the get-up, I guess. Second-hand shirts and jeans miss the mark a little.” “Mmhm.
Speaker:And you ought to get a piercing.”
Speaker:Adam slides out of the chair and stands, using his thick tail to give the leg of the table a thwack.
Speaker:“And it’s good to see you painting.”
Speaker:For the first few months I was here, I’d get a little twitch in my paw when someone mentioned something off the Internet.
Speaker:A twitch in my paw and a little shift inside me at a sudden-yet-averted
Speaker:context-shift. I could look that up,
Speaker:I’d think. I could answer their question, or laugh at their picture.
Speaker:For a while, I’d countered it with lies.
Speaker:An “Oh yeah, ha ha”
Speaker:here and a “Yeah, I saw that” there.
Speaker:The anxiety that I’d mess up and be called out got to be too much for me, though,
Speaker:and I switched from that
Speaker:to nervous silence.
Speaker:I replaced that twitch early on with the gesture of brushing back over my cheeks.
Speaker:At first, it was obvious why:
Speaker:when I got to town, my face was still freshly shaved, and for the first few weeks, the freezer-burnt marks of the brand were plain.
Speaker:Soon, though, it became more of a habit than a coping mechanism.
Speaker:I’d brush my pads over the fur and feel the edges of the shaving,
Speaker:and once they became imperceptible,
Speaker:I’d trace my claws through fur,
Speaker:trying to sense where the brown fur ended
Speaker:and the white, branded fur started. Anything
Speaker:—anything—to keep from touching the Internet.
Speaker:It would be too easy for me to just log back on.
Speaker:The temptation to peer into a life that no longer existed was too great.
Speaker:My very existence here in this town depends on that life no longer existing. I’d destroyed it,
Speaker:and destroyed all that tied me to its remains.
Speaker:And yet here I am,
Speaker:panicking in the bathroom at Starry Night.
Speaker:There’s a soft tap at the door, and I rush to straighten my skirt and apron,
Speaker:peeking in the mirror to make sure I haven’t visibly cried.
Speaker:Aurora’s there when I open the door,
Speaker:standing a scant few inches taller than I.
Speaker:“Sorry, I’m…” I shake my head.
Speaker:“I’m all done.” The coyote tilts her head quizzically,
Speaker:a movement that brushes against old memories.
Speaker:“You okay?” “Yeah, I am.”
Speaker:I stand up straighter and smile apologetically to her.
Speaker:“I will be.” We slide past each other and I make my way behind the bar again,
Speaker:busying myself with wiping down the already-clean espresso machine,
Speaker:just to give my paws something to do.
Speaker:Not many people ordering coffee at six at night.
Speaker:This late in the season, the sun sets early too.
Speaker:Stefan hikes himself up onto the bar,
Speaker:the wolf’s tail flagging off to the side.
Speaker:“You alright there, kiddo?”
Speaker:“Yeah.” I nod eagerly, then decide eagerness isn’t what I should be going for, and turn it into a shrug.
Speaker:“Just stomach stuff.
Speaker:Nerves, maybe.” I laugh,
Speaker:and it sounds too loud.
Speaker:“You bolted right off, yep.
Speaker:Anything bring it on?”
Speaker:I look around, checking on the occupants.
Speaker:We’re down to me and Stefan,
Speaker:a young fox couple, and Aurora of course.
Speaker:“Just…just something a customer…something
Speaker:that bear said.
Speaker:Or saw. I don’t know.” Stefan’s brow furrows, and I watch as the his tailtip tap arhythmically against the wall where it joins
Speaker:the bar.
Speaker:“Saw? How do you mean?”
Speaker:“He had a tablet, and I guess I caught a glimpse.
Speaker:He was talking about it to someone. Someone on the phone.” “Mm,
Speaker:yeah, I remember. What’d you see?”
Speaker:“I saw my—” My words catch in my throat.
Speaker:I saw my husband.
Speaker:I saw my name. I saw the picture from my ID.
Speaker:“I saw my hometown.”
Speaker:The wolf grins and leans back on his paws. “Home,
Speaker:eh? You don’t seem like the girl who’s eager to go back.”
Speaker:At this, I laugh in earnest.
Speaker:“No. Not at all.” “What
Speaker:about it piqued your interest, then?”
Speaker:I hide my racing thoughts with a shrug,
Speaker:and come up with a half-truth:
Speaker:“The headline had the word ‘police’ in it.”
Speaker:Nodding, Stefan slips down from his perch on the bar.
Speaker:“Fair enough. Weird day in here, anyway.
Speaker:I’mma close down after this—”
Speaker:he gestures vaguely toward the customers,
Speaker:“So feel free to head out whenever you want.”
Speaker:I think of the bus back to Adam’s and
Speaker:being alone with my thoughts.
Speaker:I could walk, but that’d just mean more time turning that glimpse of an article—something about “police” and my old name, something about how long it had been
Speaker:—over and over in my head.
Speaker:“I’ll stick around,
Speaker:help clean up and stuff.”
Speaker:Stefan shrugs, “Sure thing.
Speaker:Maybe I’ll take off early, then. You okay closing up?” “Mmhm,”
Speaker:I nod, tamping down anxiety with a jokey grin.
Speaker:“Wipe everything down, put all the food away, put the chairs up, steal all the money from the drawer…”
Speaker:The wolf laughs. “No more than ten percent, please.
Speaker:And girlie,” he reaches out and pinches my ear between his claws.
Speaker:“Get your ears pierced with all sorts of crap or something so you can turn into a real punk.
Speaker:You’re too wholesome-looking to be thieving.”
Speaker:“Adam suggested the same thing.
Speaker:This town must be in sore need of a punk.”
Speaker:“Yeah, all we’ve got is Aurora.”
Speaker:The coyote flips him off without even looking away from her book.
Speaker:He laughs. Stefan’s really good at disappearing when he’s not needed at work anymore.
Speaker:If he doesn’t have to be there for closing, he’ll be nowhere to be found.
Speaker:Oh well, that’s fine.
Speaker:I don’t imagine I’ll be here much longer anyhow.
Speaker:I start by cleaning down the bar and arranging all those bottles of flavored syrup for the drinks.
Speaker:Next comes flipping over the “open” sign and wiping down the empty tables,
Speaker:stacking chairs upside-down atop them.
Speaker:The fox couple picks up on the hint quickly and we settle their tab.
Speaker:I make a quick pass of the bathroom, but it’s clean enough as is, so I mostly just wipe down the sink.
Speaker:Back out in the café,
Speaker:I turn off the soft indie pop on the house speakers,
Speaker:and then something clicks within me.
Speaker:I clutch at the edge of the bar as all of those emotions,
Speaker:eight or nine months of them, crash into me.
Speaker:All those months of living in at least some state of fear, all those days of holding back on feeling
Speaker:anything else, they all add up to time past-me only borrowed.
Speaker:All those past-due feelings
Speaker:make themselves felt
Speaker:now. My grip on the bar tightens as I gasp out a stifled cry, and then I’m crumpling to the floor,
Speaker:wedged between the milk fridge and the end of the bar where Stefan had been sitting
Speaker:only a half hour ago.
Speaker:Anxiety crescendos into panic,
Speaker:and then far, far beyond that.
Speaker:My muscles are tensing, and my perception of the world, my entire awareness, is shrinking
Speaker:to something the size of a coin,
Speaker:chalk-white pain smelling of snow.
Speaker:I come to on my side,
Speaker:gasping for air and choking on sobs.
Speaker:I’d been sobbing the whole time, apparently, as my cheeks and the sleeve of my shirt are soaked.
Speaker:Drooling too, from the looks of it.
Speaker:My body hasn’t figured out how to move, yet,
Speaker:but I can see a dark, angular shape above me.
Speaker:I try to push away, but all I can manage is to tense up further.
Speaker:“Hey, hey, chill. It’s okay.”
Speaker:Aurora. It has to be. “Mmnglh.”
Speaker:“Let’s get you upright, at least a little.
Speaker:See if you can stand.”
Speaker:She helps lever me up until I’m leaning back against the bar. “Come on, legs out. You uh…you fell over. Let’s
Speaker:at least get your legs in front of you.” I can’t figure out how to work my voice,
Speaker:so I just continue to moan and sob as the coyote helps get my skirt untangled and
Speaker:my
Speaker:limbs out from under me.
Speaker:She slips her paws up under my arms and starts to lift. “N-nnn,”
Speaker:I manage and clutch at her arms
Speaker:—far too tightly, if her wince is anything to go by.
Speaker:Too filled with terror,
Speaker:too struck by a sense of impending death to control myself. She relents and settles back down, then gives into my tugging and slips her arms around my shoulders instead.
Speaker:There’s a little uneven rocking motion as she slides her legs out from under her, and then she’s drawing me in against her.
Speaker:I don’t really know how long I stay like that.
Speaker:The only thing describing the passage of time is my sobbing.
Speaker:Aurora is a warm bulk against me,
Speaker:something to wrap my arms around,
Speaker:some bit of stability.
Speaker:She doesn’t coo or shush,
Speaker:just rests her head against mine in silence.
Speaker:A kind, patient silence. A silence with no expectations.
Speaker:Eventually, I run out of sobs, and settle into a gentle, almost calm sort of crying.
Speaker:Aurora gives me a bit more time before carefully leaning back.
Speaker:Letting our arms slip from the embrace at least enough so that she can look at me.
Speaker:Her smile’s kind, rather than pitying.
Speaker:“Come on, let’s get you up, okay?”
Speaker:My joints are loose hinges, too well oiled.
Speaker:Finding a way to be upright without wobbling onto the floor again proves difficult.
Speaker:It takes a few tries, but I wind up with my butt parked against the edge of the bar,
Speaker:tail crimped behind me.
Speaker:I leave my shoulders leaning forward to maintain my grip on Aurora.
Speaker:I’m loath to let go of her, so it takes another fumbling second
Speaker:for me to find a way to do so.
Speaker:“Sorry,” I croak. She shakes her head and rests her paws on my shoulders.
Speaker:Once she’s sure I’m steady, she steps away and grabs a plastic to-go cup
Speaker:from beneath the bar and fills it at the sink.
Speaker:She takes one of my paws in hers and guides my fingers around the cup,
Speaker:making sure I’m holding on before she lets go.
Speaker:“Drink. You cried yourself empty.”
Speaker:I nod and sip at the water.
Speaker:It feels too full in my mouth. Too thick.
Speaker:It slides around like oil.
Speaker:When I swallow, I realize how thirsty I truly am, and finish the rest of the cup in one go.
Speaker:Aurora, meanwhile, finishes closing up;
Speaker:all that was left was her table, so there’s just two chairs to put up.
Speaker:I refill my cup from the tap and straighten up,
Speaker:trying to dispel the wobbliness in my hips and knees,
Speaker:to shake off the dark sense of panic.
Speaker:“Thanks Aurora, you didn’t have to
Speaker:—“ “But you’re in no shape to,”
Speaker:the coyote cuts me off, laughing.
Speaker:She tucks her book and papers back in her bag and slips back behind the bar again.
Speaker:Shrugging her bag’s strap up further, she snakes an arm around my back.
Speaker:“Let’s get you home, though, okay?
Speaker:You good to walk?” “Mmhm.
Speaker:I can take the bus, though. Don’t need to walk.”
Speaker:“I meant to my car.
Speaker:I’ll get you home.”
Speaker:If I open my mouth, I’ll start crying,
Speaker:so I just nod. Aurora’s car is very…her.
Speaker:I don’t really know how to put it otherwise.
Speaker:It’s sensible, as she is;
Speaker:it’s filled with books and stacks of paper,
Speaker:as her bag is; it’s not messy, but it’s got a lot going on beneath its simple exterior, like her.
Speaker:Still sniffling,
Speaker:I wait as she moves a sheaf of papers held together with a binder clip from the passenger seat to the back.
Speaker:Then I swipe my tail and skirt out of the way and slouch into the seat,
Speaker:clumsily clicking the seatbelt in place with one paw,
Speaker:the other still holding the half-full cup of water.
Speaker:The car smells of her too.
Speaker:My nose is doing about as well as anyone’s would after so much crying,
Speaker:but I can tell that much.
Speaker:It smells like when she held me.
Speaker:It smells familiar,
Speaker:like something from years ago.
Speaker:Years and years. I have to swallow down a rising wave of guilt and terror.
Speaker:The coyote settles into the driver’s seat and gets all buckled in before giving my thigh a squeeze in her paw.
Speaker:“Adam’s, right?” she asks, smiling.
Speaker:“One of the cabins?”
Speaker:I nod. “Thanks again for driving me.”
Speaker:Aurora waits until she’s reversed out of her spot and turned onto the road before answering.
Speaker:“No way I’m letting you walk,
Speaker:and goodness knows I know how awful crying alone on a bus is.”
Speaker:“Yeah, probably not a good look,”
Speaker:I say. I can’t quite laugh yet, but I do manage a sort of “heh.”
Speaker:“You are a bit of a mess.”
Speaker:I look down over my shirt and skirt.
Speaker:They’re both rumpled.
Speaker:My shirt’s still damp from my tears, and my skirt has picked up a stain from the floor behind the bar
Speaker:—probably old coffee.
Speaker:I can only imagine how my face looks.
Speaker:I grin. “Fair.” I let Aurora drive as I focus on rehydrating.
Speaker:I want to just gulp down the water, but I’ve made enough of a mess of myself tonight.
Speaker:No sense risking a spill.
Speaker:Probably better for me that way, anyway.
Speaker:It’s about a forty-five minute walk from Adam’s to Starry Night, and about twenty-five on the bus.
Speaker:I never realized how long the bus took, though,
Speaker:as it takes us less than ten minutes to get back to the long-stay.
Speaker:I laugh at the thought.
Speaker:“What’s up?” Aurora says, pulling into the dirt-road drive,
Speaker:heading around the back of the suites toward the cabins.
Speaker:“Just thinking. First time I’ve been in a car here.
Speaker:Only ever ridden the bus or walked.”
Speaker:Aurora grins and pulls into a space in front of the cabin I point out.
Speaker:“Bit faster, yeah. Still,
Speaker:it’s a pretty enough walk.”
Speaker:The car turning off leaves us in relative silence, my ears buzzing in my stuffed-up head from the lack of noise.
Speaker:My thoughts seem to be surrounding a blank space. Circling and swirling
Speaker:around it,
Speaker:around nothing. A black pit containing all the things I could think about my old life,
Speaker:of being discovered, of having to go back.
Speaker:“Hey.” Aurora. She’s smiling.
Speaker:That’s a good thing to think about instead,
Speaker:that smile. “Let’s get you inside.”
Speaker:I fumble for my buckle and start to protest, but stop before I say anything.
Speaker:The coyote, the scent of her,
Speaker:it’s all so comforting;
Speaker:might as well let her help.
Speaker:A few more moments together, at least.
Speaker:Aurora levers herself out of her seat and strides quickly around the front of the car.
Speaker:I’ve got the door open by then, but there she is,
Speaker:ready to help me out of the bucket seat.
Speaker:I grin, feeling bashful, and take her offered paw.
Speaker:She’s got a bit of a wag going on, too,
Speaker:but I try not to read too much into that.
Speaker:I lean on her as we walk the handful of steps to the door of the cabin.
Speaker:Once there, I fish in my apron pocket for my keys
Speaker:—I’d taken to wearing my work apron with the skirt for the utility of pockets
Speaker:—and let myself in.
Speaker:Let us in. No discussion about whether she’s coming in, too.
Speaker:She just is. I flip on the lights and cringe, both at the sudden brightness against the dusk outside and the mess.
Speaker:I’ve been using my suitcase as my clean clothes drawer since I moved
Speaker:in. It’s just got a day’s worth of clothes in it, though.
Speaker:Next to it on one side is a pile of dirty clothes, and on the other, a folding drying rack holding a pair of jeans, a shirt,
Speaker:and two pairs of panties hanging off the corners.
Speaker:Fuck. I turn to apologize to the coyote,
Speaker:but she hasn’t noticed the laundry at all.
Speaker:Doesn’t even seem to notice me.
Speaker:I follow her gaze,
Speaker:then cringe in earnest.
Speaker:Fuck. “Holy shit. Those paintings are yours?”
Speaker:“Yes,” I say, trying not to sound too humiliated.
Speaker:“The coyote?” I can’t come up with a reply.
Speaker:We stand in expectant silence:
Speaker:Aurora’s eyes locked on the paints and ceiling tile, burgundy, with her silhouette in black;
Speaker:and me, with my eyes locked on the floor and my tail
Speaker:tucked in against my leg.
Speaker:She turns, mouth open to ask again, when I grab at her paw and rush to cut her off.
Speaker:“Yes, I mean. Yes. You’re just…you’re
Speaker:just always there.”
Speaker:My eyes well up with tears
Speaker:—I’m surprised I have any left
Speaker:—as words keep coming, and I keep holding onto her paw.
Speaker:“You’re just always there and so familiar and I don’t know—
Speaker:They let me paint the ceiling, and I don’t know—
Speaker:I should’ve asked, I’m sorry—
Speaker:I don’t know, you’re just one of the only constants in my stupid fucking life and I didn’t even talk to you until I
Speaker:—“ “Whoa, hey!” she says, raising her voice to cut off my stream of babbling.
Speaker:She looks startled,
Speaker:but not angry. “It’s totally okay but
Speaker:—hey…” I’ve started crying in earnest again.
Speaker:Looking a fool, standing there holding a girl’s paw,
Speaker:tears pouring down your cheeks.
Speaker:I manage a strangled laugh, though it’s caught up in a sob.
Speaker:Looking fucking crazy.
Speaker:Perhaps as an echo from the café, Aurora takes charge.
Speaker:She guides me over to my bed and sits me down on it before settling in next to me
Speaker:and just holding me,
Speaker:arms around my shoulders. It doesn’t
Speaker:last long, and doesn’t get a tenth as bad as the crush of panic at Starry Night,
Speaker:but it still takes me a few minutes to get to the point where I can speak again.
Speaker:“Sorry, Aurora.” I pace myself, so I don’t just start babbling again.
Speaker:“Didn’t mean to do that.
Speaker:Just such a mess today. My life’s a mess, and it
Speaker:all hit at once.” “Tell me a bit about your life, then,”
Speaker:she asks, low voice kind.
Speaker:“I want to hear.” I feel my face tighten in an ugly rictus,
Speaker:teeth bared and whiskers bristled.
Speaker:It’s been months,
Speaker:but the freeze-brand scars over my cheeks give a twinge of protest.
Speaker:“There’s nothing.” As the sobs pick up again, dry now, I have to eke out words between.
Speaker:“There’s nothing there.
Speaker:I’m just…paper. Paper thin with no substance.
Speaker:No substance at all.”
Speaker:I trail off and take a few gulping breaths to calm myself,
Speaker:forcing my expression into mere hopelessness,
Speaker:rather than that grimace of self-loathing.
Speaker:Aurora watches me,
Speaker:and, after I’ve gotten my crying under control, opens her mouth as though to say something,
Speaker:then seems to think better of it and
Speaker:leans in to kiss me instead.
Speaker:I jolt and tense up.
Speaker:I hold my breath.
Speaker:My mind goes blank.
Speaker:That sensation of being about to cry fills my chest,
Speaker:never mind the fact that I’d already crying.
Speaker:Then I just lean into the kiss.
Speaker:Return it. No discussion about it;
Speaker:it feels familiar,
Speaker:fulfilling. I’m calm.
Speaker:Still at last. Aurora seems comfortable taking the lead,
Speaker:using her paws and subtle shifts of her weight to guide me to lay back on the bed.
Speaker:Once I’m there, she leans up from the kiss and grins down to me with
Speaker:just a hint of silliness.
Speaker:“You feel substantive to me.”
Speaker:I’m wrong-footed by this and it takes a moment to parse.
Speaker:Once it clicks, though, I giggle.
Speaker:“Thanks.” I feel stupid just leaving it at that, though, and add,
Speaker:“That was nice.” “Mmhm.” Still grinning, she leans into give me another quick kiss, then moves to kneel on the edge of the bed,
Speaker:tugging me by the paw.
Speaker:“Come on. Scoot.” I laugh and swipe at my face with the sleeve of my shirt
Speaker:—I must look a mess after all of this.
Speaker:Still, I scoot further up onto the bed at the coyote’s bidding.
Speaker:“Alright, alright. How come?”
Speaker:Aurora shrugs, her grin softening into a kind smile.
Speaker:“I got you thinking less about whatever’s up with your life, right?
Speaker:I hope so, at least.”
Speaker:I nod, and she continues,
Speaker:“The least I could do is also let you be comfortable on your bed instead of half hanging off of it.”
Speaker:“Good point,” I laugh and haul myself up onto the bed,
Speaker:flopping back against the pile of pillows.
Speaker:I’d bought more once it was clear I was staying here a while, and I’m thankful for it now.
Speaker:Aurora moves too;
Speaker:as I make room, she moves up onto the bed to kneel next to me.
Speaker:“Doing better?” “Yeah,
Speaker:thank you.” After a moment’s thought,
Speaker:I ask, “Why’d you do that?”
Speaker:The coyote frowns down to me, ears splayed in embarrassment.
Speaker:“I wanted to. It felt like it would work,
Speaker:and like it would be okay.
Speaker:I should have asked, though. I’m sorry.”
Speaker:“No!” I realize how loud that was and smile sheepishly up to her.
Speaker:“No, it was nice.
Speaker:Real nice.” That slightly silly grin comes back,
Speaker:tugging on buried memories.
Speaker:Memories of a latrans smile.
Speaker:“Good,” she says, leaning in to press another kiss to my muzzle.
Speaker:I return this one more readily than the last,
Speaker:sliding my arms up around her shoulders.
Speaker:This goes over quite well.
Speaker:Aurora seems to have taken it as a sign, and leans down over me more assertively,
Speaker:paws planted to either side of my shoulders.
Speaker:After a moment’s hesitation, she leans up a little further onto her knees and shifts one up over me until she’s straddling my waist.
Speaker:She’s bigger than me,
Speaker:weighs more than I do.
Speaker:Maybe it’s the way she carries herself, but her weight is more
Speaker:comforting than heavy.
Speaker:“Wait,” I murmur, twisting my head slightly to pull away from the kiss.
Speaker:Aurora immediately tenses up,
Speaker:ears canting back.
Speaker:“Uh, sorry, I don’t
Speaker:—“ “No, no. You’re fine,”
Speaker:I mumble, searching for words.
Speaker:“Don’t know why…why this is…doing
Speaker:what it is.
Speaker:Working. Stopping me from crying and all.
Speaker:Taking my mind off
Speaker:stuff.” She stays silent above me.
Speaker:An expectant silence she waits for me to fill.
Speaker:I hunt for words as best I can.
Speaker:“Maybe I just…I don’t know.
Speaker:I haven’t touched
Speaker:—or been touched by—anyone since I made it out here.
Speaker:Before that, even.
Speaker:It feels dumb to say, I guess.”
Speaker:Aurora gives a short bark of a laugh at that, then lays her ears back again apologetically.
Speaker:“Sorry. You mean not at all?”
Speaker:“Well, sure, I mean.
Speaker:I shook paws with Adam and Stefan, whatever.
Speaker:I’ve touched, yeah,
Speaker:but just nothing like this.”
Speaker:At that her expression softens and she nods.
Speaker:“Been a while, huh?” I nod.
Speaker:“And this is okay?”
Speaker:I nod again and lean up to give her a quick kiss.
Speaker:“Yeah, very.” She nods,
Speaker:muzzle dipping to turn that motion into something of a nuzzle,
Speaker:and I can feel her nose tracing along one of those white bands of fur on my cheek,
Speaker:then under my chin,
Speaker:dipping down to tease at the coil of blue fur
Speaker:—faded now to a pale aqua
Speaker:—peeking up above the scoop-neck of my shirt.
Speaker:Her soft, low voice is muffled by my fur.
Speaker:“This is okay, too?” Without tucking my muzzle uncomfortably low, all I can really see are her ears,
Speaker:so I lean forward to place a kiss between them,
Speaker:fur and familiar scent tickling at my nose. “Mmhm.”
Speaker:I’ve given up saying more.
Speaker:Aurora responds with a kiss of her own against my sternum.
Speaker:It’s a ticklish sort of feeling, and my squirming gets a giggle, muffled as before against my chest.
Speaker:She settles down from her crouch above me,
Speaker:bringing her paws from by my shoulders to brush along my sides as she rests more fully against my front.
Speaker:I slip my own arms from around her until it’s just my paws on her shoulders.
Speaker:The sheer exhilaration of physical contact seems to be filling my mind
Speaker:—or at least that empty void within that I’ve only been able to tiptoe around
Speaker:—with something new.
Speaker:Something else. Something other than low-level anxiety.
Speaker:I can close my eyes and not wind up in some horrible hopelessness.
Speaker:I don’t have to think, I can just
Speaker:be here. Goodness knows why, but I can just be here.
Speaker:I jolt to awareness from my wandering thoughts and tense up, and Aurora’s paws pause halfway up my sides.
Speaker:Her fingers and claws are buried in my fur with t-shirt cloth bunched around her wrists.
Speaker:We both hold still in that silence,
Speaker:a few long seconds of just our breaths.
Speaker:For once I don’t
Speaker:rush to fill it with words, and simply settle back down,
Speaker:relaxing into her grasp.
Speaker:The coyote hesitates a moment longer before edging her paws upward further,
Speaker:inching shirt up over fur.
Speaker:Keeping my paws on her shoulders as best as possible, I arch my back enough to let her slide my shirt up.
Speaker:The exploration continues in fits and starts from there.
Speaker:Kisses along the blue diamond and down over my chest.
Speaker:Aurora shifting her weight.
Speaker:Me tugging my shirt off to keep it out of the way.
Speaker:Soft coyote nose tracing spirals in my fur.
Speaker:One lasting sensation,
Speaker:a singular point of focus.
Speaker:The skirt, though, requires coordination.
Speaker:Aurora and I have to exchange a few glances, one or two half-words, and some soft giggles before the garment winds up bunched around my waist,
Speaker:spilling in pools of cotton to either side of me.
Speaker:And then there we are:
Speaker:me, with shirt off but for one arm still stuck through a sleeve,
Speaker:skirt bunched around her waist; and Aurora,
Speaker:looking nervous but excited,
Speaker:wagging as she looks up at me along my front over a pile of rumpled skirt.
Speaker:“So uh…” I begin. “Mm?” “Mm.” Soft noises.
Speaker:Gestures of paws.
Speaker:The warmth of a tongue, slender and attentive.
Speaker:Finely-tapered coyote muzzle.
Speaker:Lithe, arched weasel back.
Speaker:Quiet moans and subtle shifts to express what works and what doesn’t.
Speaker:Paws finding places to rest,
Speaker:to touch, to brush and stroke.
Speaker:And then something new,
Speaker:something different
Speaker:clicks within me.
Speaker:A rising swell of pleasure,
Speaker:and a sudden, uneven tumble
Speaker:of memories. A shuddering gasp and
Speaker:an attachment of name
Speaker:to place to time.
Speaker:A contraction, then relaxation of muscles
Speaker:and a line drawn between two points.
Speaker:A connection. Panting to catch my breath, and glimpses of high school,
Speaker:of nervous first times.
Speaker:Memories of a muzzle and an attentive tongue.
Speaker:That same muzzle,
Speaker:that same tongue
Speaker:A warm glow, and a name
Speaker:surfacing to memory.
Speaker:I collapse back onto the bed,
Speaker:slack, and stare down over my front.
Speaker:Aurora stares back just as intently shifting her weight forward once more, retracing her route of kisses in double time.
Speaker:“Wait, you’re—“ “Aurora.
Speaker:I’m Aurora.” I start to speak, but she cuts me off.
Speaker:“I’m Aurora. You’re you.”
Speaker:I swallow compulsively,
Speaker:feel fear caving in my insides, terror at having been recognized,
Speaker:caught. “But you were…we
Speaker:—“ “I know who you were,
Speaker:and you know who I was,
Speaker:but I’m Aurora. You’re you.”
Speaker:I fall silent, paws clutching at the duvet in search of something solid.
Speaker:Aurora leans up for the final kiss, more tender than heated,
Speaker:more earnest than fumbling.
Speaker:I smell her, and taste myself.
Speaker:“We all have reasons to disappear,”
Speaker:Aurora murmurs. We’ve settled back onto that stack of pillows I’ve collected.
Speaker:My skirt’s still bunched up between us, but I’ve managed to toss my shirt to the side.
Speaker:She’s gotten her arms around me once more
Speaker:and her cool nosetip
Speaker:is teasing along those brands again
Speaker:from where she lays beside me.
Speaker:“I suppose,” I begin, then shake my head as if to throw away a
Speaker:bit of the non-speech.
Speaker:“So you came out west and transitioned out here.”
Speaker:A faint nod, nose exploring a line perpendicular to the stripes of my brands.
Speaker:“I tried back home,
Speaker:a bit after high school and,
Speaker:uh…us. My heart was half out here by then anyway, though,
Speaker:and no one wants a mopey, trans coyote,
Speaker:least of all my parents.”
Speaker:I nod. There’s still that hint of a name
Speaker:—I can think it, but would have a hard time saying it
Speaker:—and that memory of a tapered muzzle between my thighs.
Speaker:Memories from nigh on twenty years ago.
Speaker:A high school fling.
Speaker:Two dates, a night together, and drifting apart.
Speaker:She had seemed so uncomfortable with herself.
Speaker:We’d… Well, tonight had more than made up for that.
Speaker:“And you?” “Mm?” “Why’d you disappear?”
Speaker:“I don’t know.” Aurora lifts her head a little,
Speaker:a hint of a grin turning the corner of her mouth.
Speaker:“You don’t know?” “I don’t.”
Speaker:I tilt my head to press my nose to hers.
Speaker:“I think that’s what got me today.
Speaker:I saw that thing on the news. About Jarred, about myself.
Speaker:About home.” She nods, nose against nose and stifling a yawn.
Speaker:“And I just don’t know why,”
Speaker:I murmur. “I unwound all of that life and came here,
Speaker:and I think, when I saw it, I realized I don’t know why I did it.”
Speaker:“Were you happy, back home?”
Speaker:“No.” Aurora tucks her muzzle up under my jaw and hugs her arm around me a little tighter.
Speaker:“Neither was I.” I brush my fingers across her arm,
Speaker:plowing a furrow in gray-tan fur, then smoothing it back down.
Speaker:I push down memories of that gawky and shy coyote,
Speaker:and revel instead in the comfort
Speaker:of Aurora. So many months of panic
Speaker:following so many years of discontent.
Speaker:So much time alone. And now, comfort
Speaker:and peace. Muzzle tucked over hers, I ask,
Speaker:“What about me did you remember?”
Speaker:“Your paintings.” “Have I changed that much?”
Speaker:“I mean, you looked like someone who could’ve been, uh,
Speaker:who you were. But it was your paintings.”
Speaker:She yawns in earnest.
Speaker:“The lines. The shapes.”
Speaker:The burgundy-and-black ceiling tile is behind me.
Speaker:I think of looking, of disentangling myself from the coyote’s arms,
Speaker:but there’s something much better
Speaker:here in front of me.
Speaker:“And you?” Aurora sounds sleepy.
Speaker:“What tipped you off about me?”
Speaker:I think of all the things I could say
Speaker:—the warmth of her breath,
Speaker:the trail of kisses,
Speaker:the way her nose drew lines through my fur.
Speaker:The way she rested her cheek on her paw,
Speaker:staring out the window.
Speaker:The softness of her form.
Speaker:Her very scent. We lay together
Speaker:in silence. A comfortable silence.
Speaker:The first in a long
Speaker:time. This was “Disappearance”
Speaker:by Madison Scott-Clary, read for you
Speaker:by the author herself.
Speaker:As always, you can find more stories on the web at thevoice.dog,
Speaker:or find the show wherever you get your podcasts.
Speaker:Thank you for listening
Speaker:to The Voice of Dog.
