The other day we were in a bit of a hurry so Jon pulled the car around to the shop and had me jump out to pay rent. I was feeling off. Not personable at all. Feeling like the perfect mixture of both my agoraphobic grandmothers, aching knuckles and all. And sometimes when I am feeling this way I say things without thinking.
I can't see through the shop door so I knock and open it slowly. A beautiful life size diorama of animal death welcomes me. A caribou, neck curved towards me, nostrils as if drinking me in; bear skin upon bear skin piled upon the pollished concrete floor; chocolate brown, tawny, snow-white furs hanging on hooks or draped over wooden crates; trophy busts with glorious racks; entire creatures frozen in this beautiful imagined moment.
The taxidermist asks how are things and I say great.
I turn the question back on him.
"We're surviving," he says.
"Not these guys," I say.
I turn the question back on him.
"We're surviving," he says.
"Not these guys," I say.
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