It was the worst sort of enchantment— spring, and all the cherry trees on fire in the park across the street. I had a bruised arm, a polka-dot dress, and you, a canoe in your garage we couldn’t carry. The morning was disguised as a toothache and there was no getting over it. We were the worst sort of accomplices. replacing the arbor with tin cans and tissue paper. The picket fence with chicken wire until the evening spindled to an argument. That night, I pulled enough hair from the shower drain to make a doll, rode the bus home imagining feral shadows moving in grass along along the shoulder. Really, I was out for blood. Biting your lip and moving over you in the orange glow of the streetlight, something soft and fur-lined in my moth when I kissed you. We imagined horrible things were happening in the suburbs full of key parties and discontented husbands. Broken fences and children crouched in closets. The boats in the harbor knocking sides in twilight. The prairie stretching around us black and flat.