History of Wolves

by Emily Fridlund

Because it’s strange, you know? It’s marvelous, and sad too, how good it can feel to have your body taken for granted.

“You all have a thing for horses and wolves. I love that. I love that. That’s so weird. What is that about?”

“What makes pie so good?” Paul asked as we walked out. The sugar had wound him up. He was doing a little jig of ecstasy, hopping from foot to foot, flapping his fingertips. “It’s in the name,” I said. “Chocolate?” “Mousse.” I raised my eyebrows. Paul looked up at the moose head mounted over the door, antlers wide as a man’s flung-open arms, nostrils big as bowls.