Close your eyes. Imagine a barbeque shack.
Faded red paint on hand-hewn timbers. Mesquite smoke curled in pine boughs.
A man is chopping wood. Flames blaze next to him from a charred iron vessel, it once belonged on a submarine.
A bell rings and woman appears at the door of the shack.
She holds a jar and dips her finger into it. When she pulls it out, it’s orange, dripping dark and rusted liquid, like a clinging puddle of autumn. She holds it out toward the man.
He puts down the ax. Walks over and licks her finger.
“You did it Tilly. This tastes like a time when I was exuberant and free.”Dontate