Wolf
Oh, the challenge of a good prompt; in this case, I was supposed to write an action/adventure piece under 500 words, and include a picnic blanket and breaking glass. I ended up with “Wolf:” a dark, dirty, trigger-inducing story that, naturally, expressed itself as a tragedy, because I can’t write anything else.
Wolf
Getting on your motorcycle for the first time, I was so nervous; that’s why I’d already drank three beers getting ready, even though it wasn’t yet noon (I didn’t know yet that I was going to call you a stupid cunt a few months later at your best friend’s show after doing bumps with your youngest sister in the public bathroom at the park).
You showed up in a checked flannel long sleeve, with a jacket over top, so perfectly simple, just like your makeup-free face; beautiful. I wore plaid too, a gingham bandana tied across my chest; I’d wanted to embody summer, completely unprepared for the breeze of a bike, so you gave me your jacket, and I acted coy, calm (this was before that time at your parents house when they asked me what I did for work, and I started to ugly-cry at the dinner table).
When you suggested that we stop to grab a pack of beers on the way to the cliffs, I felt relieved; I was self-conscious of my shaking. You took us to a hillside lookout, and we settled in against the hard, rolling surface of the granite, making ourselves appear comfortable, looking out over the ocean, talking – about our families, movies, music, and about our jobs; we both hated what we did back then (this was before you landed your dream job and made all of those new friends who, every time I was stoned, I convinced myself you’d leave me for).
After discovering a bag of mixed nuts in your backpack, I insisted we make our spread into a proper picnic, and, still wearing your jacket, I untied the kerchief I wore around my chest, noticing you blush sweetly as you glimpsed my bare breasts from beneath the coat while I laid the red and white square down like a picnic blanket, just big enough for our beers and nuts to rest on (this was years before I gaslit you into believing that I cheated on you because I thought you didn’t want to touch me anymore).
Once I’d finished my third (sixth) beer, I stood up, stretched, looked at you and winked – and then threw my empty bottle against a rock below, shattering the glass before letting out a long, loud howl (something that, back then, you had no idea I did all the time, when I was wasted and reckless, like that time at our friend’s wedding, after you’d just made a speech).
Looking at your surprised expression on the cliffs, I knew I couldn’t take it back – I’d ruined everything. But your alarm transformed into fearlessness, and you stood up next to me, guzzled back the remaining liquid from your pony-necked bottle, and threw yours against the rocks even harder than I had before releasing your own howl, wrapping your arms around me and pressing your fingers into the bare skin of my back, kissing me. And I knew you loved me then, because back then, you did.
