The holes in your face are attractive. They're where they ought to be. Some of them have eyes and some have teeth. Others are empty. That is fine.

Every time you say "werewolf" with your mouth it's like you actually said it with your toes. I find that adorable. Let me lunch on you.

I told you not to feed the bird your Mt. Dew. I hated chasing that thing. It was flying meth and your eyes said that you were too.

The bird torpedoed into the back porch glass door and fell to the floor next to your tennis racket. I pinched its right wing and jogged outside to drop it in the grass by the porch. We watched it sit there and then we watched television. The bird was gone in the morning.

The holes in your face became very sad over the following days. You said you missed it, and you always said It, because you didn't know the bird's sex and didn't want to be wrong. You never liked being wrong. I did not point out that giving Mt. Dew to the bird was wrong. The holes in your face were sad enough as it was.

Someone told me I was digressing, but I dare not be influenced by such nuances. A face is a face, and a werewolf is well... two. And that is to say, more than one and both at once. Yeah... that. And that is the conundrum, don't you see?

The days were shaky. Vibrating like time, we waited for the ease of breath. We'd filled the countertops with crumbs and it was time to feed your pig. His name was Grandpa and you sat with him as such. The holes in your face were saying something but the whines were too small. Both in light and dark, I could see your adorable. It peeked like Fat Man over Nagasaki.

We talked about the bird, where it went. I imagined a lonely wolf picked at it through the night. You just said it was dead, and that's what matters. You kept feeding Grandpa. I watched his snout sweep the air in between gulps of hot dogs and birdseed. "Grandpa is a cannibal" I said. "They're hot dogs" you said. "Maybe he's not."

We talked into the bird. We spoke about beliebing. We spoke an onslaught of babies into the bird. The bird spoke the word thrice. It spake, "Baby, baby, baby."

And so the bird became three babies, bird babies without flight, and they toppled over when they tried to keep up with the speed of the grown. We knew the babies were not far and we knew they were in danger and we pretended to know how to calm their groaning as we overindulged the pig.

Grandpa began heaving and the sound was horrible. You kept looking like the sun was in your eyes but it was cloudy and cold like we were somewhere else. The things that came out of Grandpa were glistening and coated with odor. A corn cob, a skateboard wheel, a cluster of teeth and hair. I could never tell you how stupid your Japanese tattoo was, but I when I saw the cluster I wondered if maybe it could mean that instead of "dreams."
We tried to decide how to keep Grandpa out of the puppy's bed. Mostly we just kicked at dust.

The dust that flew into the air due to our kicks upset Grandpa. He would have told us to stop if he didn't think we had been rendered aloof w/r/t talking animals. Instead, he merely heaved with more volume. We were irritated that he was putting on a show with his vomiting. You said, "Grandpa, I swear if you don't clean that up..." I said, "He doesn't know what 'clean up' is. He is a pig." You weren't listening; you were giving the babies Mt. Dew.

And out the window we saw an approaching swarm of bees in the shape of a hurricane. We worked quickly to dress Grandpa and the babies in beekeeper suits and put them on ourselves. Inside the suit I could feel my breath's foggy echo, naked inside the suit. The tv began to blur into oceans. We stood still as the bees vibration shatter the windows.

The flurry of glass and bees kept me squinting in my beekeeper suit, anticipating a slashed shoulder or punctured stomach that wouldn't come. "These suits were made for this!" I shouted over the buzzing tempest. "What?!" you said. "I love you!" I shouted. "What?!" you said. "Nevermind!" I shouted. "Bees!" you said.

After bee season passed, we grew apart. You were working more than you used to and I was suspecting you were sleeping with someone from work more than I used to. I stopped thinking you smelled good, and I suspect you did the same of me. Our bed had turned into a marble slab. Our anniversary had been converted into El Día de los Muertos. Watching reruns of The Office while sharing a blanket was replaced with arguments over the custody of Grandpa and the babies.

Our beekeeper suits were enmeshed like love-wrestlers in the crawlspace. I was jealous of them and avoided the crawlspace and basement altogether. We kept Grandpa's trough down there, so I made elaborate excuses not to go down and feed him. I told you the little bones in my feet were weakening and aching, so I wouldn't be able to descend the already treacherous staircase. I went to go to a foot doctor to prove it to you. I altered the x-ray. That and the prescription shoes convinced you. When I came home from the doctor, you said the shoes looked like bricks. That was probably the last time we laughed together.

One afternoon when I came home after apartment hunting, I found you at the bottom of the staircase. You had fallen three hours before, snapping every single bone in your body except for the ones involving the mouth, which is how you were able to tell me this information. I asked, "How did you know you broke every bone but those?" and you told me that bone detection was the superpower you gained over bee season. Fortunately, mine was take-backs, so I rewinded you up the stairs, and caught you when you fell again.