Where We Began

“This is where we began.” He lifts a fork, appraises her, catches the flight of angels, pops air into his void of a mouth. The room reeks of fur.

Detail of Dog by Francisco Goya (Public Domain)

She rotates her plate a degree and fails to find her face in it. “I feel as though there are always moths in this room.” Under the furs, between the slats, folded against the walls, bustling in the closet. Munching. Flying. Fighting.