and so she walked through the barren city park, turning her ankles on treeroots, the brown of the rebirthing world hardly the spring the month nominally promised. the watertower in the distance the same taupe color as the light. when later she saw him she said but we don't subscribe to men's journal.
i reckon the journal of men's the least of our worries.
men and their journals, she said.
tobey maguire is a legitimate hero he said. spiderman was my favorite comic book.
she looked at him.
when next they walked the dog's bloodlust for the stirring spring creatures exceeded the strength of her shoulder meant to restrain it. magazines and who and who did not subscribe to them were forgotten or neglected. a baby squirrel taunted the dog and when the dog lunged for it the girls arm was yanked so hard that the arm came off with a moist bone-tearing sound which for one ludicrous reminded her of eating chicken wings and the dog trailing the leash still gripped by the bodiless hand and arm ran the squirrel up a tree wagging. the blood spurted from the girl's shoulder in great brown arcs that did not glisten but that fell on the arid postwinter land that was not even froze enough to bounce like the hockey players blood that her neighbors watched behind their closed doors in the blue light of TV evenings and she said call an ambulance and the other dog was looking confused and stood at the ready and a car drove by and did not notice.
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