All day he shoveled dung at the zoo. A life viewed through cages and bars. Wore too much Aqua Velva for his young wife's asthma. She still remembered him, Mountain-high, on that lifeguard tower. The salty/cocoa butter scent of him in the sheets. The elephants, he'd told her. Christ!—the elephants... She was humming a tune from a TV commercial which had stuck in her head. He asked her to stop. There was a roast in the oven, a canary making a racket in the sunroom, their toddler forming an army of wide-jawed alligator clothespins. He got up and reached for the remote sprouting from between the couch cushions where she sat. Leaned close and plucked it out like a radish. Sat back in his Lazy Boy. She coughed.
Insects Are Just Like You and Me Except Some of Them Have Wings