That night, when you come to me as yourself, you don’t mention being a fox earlier, so neither do I. If I did, I would have to say something about how many women it looked like you ate, and we agreed that the fastest way to kill the mood is to talk about the other women. Instead, we watch TV. When we fuck, I pretend I am a fox. I imagine triangular ears and soft black mittens and pointy teeth. I bite your shoulder to test them. Foxes don’t fall in love with anyone. Foxes don’t even have a word for love. If you were to ask a fox if he loved you, he would probably eat you, but not for the
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