Fear

When she pours washing-up liquid into the sink it looks grey, though she knows it's green. Or maybe it's blue. It can't be grey. It wouldn't be good marketing for Fairy Liquid.

Ten minutes later the dishes are done and she can't remember how that happened, how she got from there to here. She shakes her hands off, grey splashes, outside the door is the forest.

*

When the wolf comes it's already half an hour to noon and it has a bloody nose, like a PETA member went nuts and got the order of protest all wrong; its jaws are tight and smooth with Vaseline over her neck; it only has gums. She slides in and out of the aperture, it's like fucking. The wolf is growling outside her experience. Would you like a tissue, sir. How does your dog-wolf smell? Awful. It's the altitude. It's the dry weather. It's because you picked your nose with oh what sharp claws you have.

*

Her son and daughter-in-law are coming for lunch. She has put doilies under the tea-cups.

*

When the sun sets, her stomach is growling again, but she can't see the trees outside the window. It's too dark. She drinks a cup of Earl Grey and looks out the glass darkly to something less than black but more than over-steeped brown tea. Her throat remembers the tight bottleneck; the kitchen is safe from trees and fur; her mouth is full of fur. She keeps looking out, but while she's remembering her eyes are not watching.

*

It's night. She puts her false teeth in the mug of cold tea and it's not water, but it will have to do.