Fox Tails

It’s not easy being a fox.

Now, I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking that it’s not easy to be any sort of animal (and you would be right), but believe me when I tell you that it is particularly hard to be a fox. 

Ever since that dapper English dandy made a name for himself by snacking on poor, innocent virgins, it has been hard for me and mine to get one up in this world. Sloppy work on his part is what it was. You never let your intended know where you live before the wedding night—never mind how special old Fox thought dear Mary was, it simply isn’t something a responsible fox does—unless, of course, he wants to get chopped to a thousand pieces by Mary’s friends and family.

The trick is not to draw attention to yourself--that's where most of us go wrong. We make these great romantic gestures, each more elaborate than the next, and it's easy to get carried away by our excitement and anticipation. And if we do that, and it's all boots and cudgels and sharp metal objects splicing you into a thousand pieces. It's not a pretty picture, and I don't envy old Fox one bit—though I have to say it's his own fault: a bloody trail to your front door doesn't exactly herald good tithing or a blissful marriage.

Of course, we can’t be held entirely responsible for our naughty ways: they’re bred into us. We foxes see a pretty girl and cannot help but to become enthralled by her, to be consumed by our need to have her, possess her (and I dare say eat her). Really, it’s their own faults for being so charming, so easy to smile and laugh, for having dimples and pert little breasts and lovely supple legs...

Luckily, we tods have learned from the mistakes of those like Mr. Fox; we have become more clever and cleaner in this modern world. We set our alarms to ward off our uninvited girlfriends. The changes that come with said modern world also do their part to make our lives a little safer. Since even the earliest years of my kithood—oh, somewhere around the turn of last century, I expect—the modern world has slowly begun to push away the notion of fairies and goblins and foxes who talk, and I dare say that this is a marvelous thing, for the less that people remember their bedtime stories, the easier it becomes to be what I am: that is a fox. After all, it might be true that we foxes do have a keen fondness for the succulent flesh of young ladies, but in a world like this, our modern era, a phrase like that can have so many meanings.

But I can understand…I can understand why those that were found out were discovered in the process of attaining their lady loves. Knowing your meal inside and out is a singular feeling one can easily become addicted to. We all have our weaknesses, our Marys.

My own Mary is sitting beside me: the jean skirt that she wears show more of her strong thighs than it hides, the light of the street lights emphasize the gentle curve of her calves; her dainty bare feet which rest on the dashboard are pretty things with red polished toes; the black halter top that she wears cup her breast in a way that I’m pretty sure is an invitation; that’s not even touching on her long brown curls, or the sharp, sweet scent that blows my way as she rolls her window down for a breath of fresh air after our shared cigarette. It’s definitely not counting her throaty laugh, her sweet voice as she sings along to a song on the radio or the sweet come-hither look she’s been giving me the past hour and a half as we drive from club to club to show each other off. But, like the original, she too has a tendency to pry and skulk about to satisfy her curiosity, and I must be very careful not to end my trial of blood at the wrong door.

And this is where it gets difficult: she wants to come home with me. She’s been asking for weeks—a month, actually—and I am running out of excuses. My roommate (which I do not have), my parents (who are now long dead), my dog (don’t even ask…)

Et cetera

Et cetera

Et cetera

And with each excuse I can feel her slipping from my grasp and you cannot possibly understand how much the thought of losing her kills me. 

I thought about giving in once or twice, but like every Mary, she has friends and family that would see me chopped up and fed to dogs; it’s better to lose a meal than your head.

She must also be contemplating my unwillingness to take her home with me, for her face goes grave for several long moments despite the fact that she likes the song that’s playing. I glance at her from the corner of my eye as my car rolls to a stop at the three way intersection that turns into her street.

“You should come inside with me,” she suggests as she retracts her legs and fishes about in front of her seat for her strappy heels. “We could make some popcorn, watch a movie: you know I just got a new batch of DVDs from the video store the other day. I betcha there’s something you’ll like.”

Her green eyes brighten as she regards me.  Be bold, they say.

But a voice in my own head whispers the reply: but not too bold.

I don’t say anything as I cross the intersection and follow the road around the bend. Her expression deflates. I don’t see it, but I hear it in the way that she shifts uncomfortably—disappointedly—in her seat as I ease along the road.

“Sure,” I find myself saying as the car turns into her driveway. “Sure, I would like that.” And I smile at her as I put the car into park. After all, her house is not my house.

She brightens again, and in that moment I am breathless. Nothing is more beautiful than her smile, the flush of her cheeks, the way she scrunches her shoulders before she rewards my agreement with a kiss on my own scruffy cheek.

I chuckle as she fumbles with the handle of the car door and eventually pulls herself from her seat to a semi-standing position in her driveway.

“C’mon then!” she chirrups, peeking from beneath the top of the car before disappearing behind the slammed door.

I detangle myself from my seatbelt as she skips up to the red wooden door. Her house is almost as cute as she is. It’s small with white walls and windows with flowerboxes: oddly suiting, I think.

She is flipping through her key ring as I approach, and she exclaims a tiny “a-ha!” and produces the correct key for the lock. As she fits the key into place, a breeze ruffles her hair and carries her scent to me. My mouth waters in anticipation and I move to brush her hair away so I can kiss a bare shoulder

Be bold be bold, her scent urges.

And again, the now incredibly sulky voice from my own mind answers: But not too bold.

I lower my hand as she turns to look at me, and I smile instead of kissing her. She smiles back as she disappears into the house.

“Come on in,” she calls from the darkness, “let me change and I’ll pop us some popcorn.”

I step into what appears to be a front entry. A light waxes in some other room of the house—not enough to illuminate the hall, but enough that I catch a glimpse of her shadow on the wall.

Licking my lips, I start toward the light. So eager am I in my pursuit that my foot catches on a loose corner of the rug and—much to my chagrin—I take a tumble to the floor.

To ease my embarrassment, I turn, my every design focused upon kicking the rug back into its proper place, only to find that it was not the rug which I had tripped over.

My stomach knots as I pick up the half chewed forearm of a man.  “It is not so,” I hear myself whisper as my Mary slips from shadow to shadow, her white teeth and green eyes flashing viciously.

“Nor was it so…” I drop the hand, scramble up to my knees before she has be by the neck, her grip surprisingly strong, her long nails biting into my skin as she brings down a knife “And God forbid it should ever be so!”

And there I see it! Peaking from beneath her skirt, the tuft of a fox’s tail, and I, like a fool, could only shout.

Heart Throb

            The day I gave my heart away was a rainy one—the sort where the wind makes the rain fall sideways, and the drops are small and needle-like on your bare skin because it’s too cold for its own good. I was running late, on top of the rain, and since bad things come in threes, I shouldn’t have been surprised that this was the day that my car’s engine quit on me in the middle of a busy intersection.

            Luck got me safely to the side of the road, or it did if you believe in luck. I suppose that a scientist could chalk it up to a lack of friction on wet roads, and momentum. An object in motion will stay in motion, etc. etc. I hate science, personally. I’m a firm believer in luck and chance. Fate.

            Probably how I got into this mess in the first place.

            Dumbfounded, I sat in the carcass of my car and watched the rain fall in a fine, sharp mist against the windshield. I looked at the "check engine" light, the fuel gauge, then at the oil and the temperature. Everything looked okay to me. It looked the same as it ever did, anyway. 

            Looking at the dash was about the extent of my experience with cars. I’d never opened a hood in my life.

            When my brain finally broke through the bog, I tried my hand at percussive maintenance—because beating the dashboard with one’s fist is just as good as opening the hood when you have no idea what you’re doing.

            “Stupid—stupid—stupid—stupid!” I said the word until it meant nothing, and then I let my head fall against the headrest of my seat and heaved an almighty sigh.

            I turned on my hazard lights. I used my cellphone to call in to work, and then I called a tow truck.

            “It’ll pro’ly be about an hour, you know. With the weather an’ all.”

            Yes, of course it would.

            I stared at the dashboard again, thought about taking a nap, decided against it, turned on the radio, decided against that, reached for my phone and decided that I didn’t want to waste the battery.  All of that took five minutes.

            The pattern may have repeated a dozen times if a pair of headlights didn’t appear in my rear-view, come precariously close to my car and then stop. I watched through the rain as the door opened, as a black umbrella appeared, and a figure made its way to my car.

            I was already rolling my window down when the figure approached me.

            “Looks like you’re in a bit of trouble.”

            “Ah, yeah a bit,” I found myself quickly descending from anger into the low realm of embarrassment. Talk about a perfect specimen of the golden ratio. Green eyes, dark hair, high cheek bones—a face delicately crafted with symmetry in mind. I felt my heart throb. Oi.

            “The whole thing just sort of up and died on me,” I admitted.  “I’m waiting for the tow truck.”

            “Ha! You’ll be here a while. D’you know what’s wrong with it?”

            I shook my head. “I hate cars.”

            That’s when the smile happened. “Well I can look for you, but it might cost ya.”

            It was a stupid thing to do, in retrospect, but with that smile in my face, it was hard to think. I undid the brass buttons of my coat and pulled it open, pulled down the collar of my shirt. It was easier to pull my heart out than I thought it would be, and less painful.

            Gripping it firmly—it was heavy for being so small, dense, I guess would be the word—stuck my hand through the window, and winced when the rain began to wash away the blood. I could feel the raindrops hit it, stinging, but I did not shy away as I held my heart out on offer. “Will this do?”

            Long fingers brushed over my heart, a palm pressed against it, muffling its beat. “Yeah, all right.” And then it was gone from my hand, in the pocket of someone else’s coat. Someone whose name I didn’t even know.

            I popped my hood and watched the figure disappear to look at my engine. A few minutes passed, and then: “Try it now.”

            Like magic, my car came alive.

            “Should do you, at least to get home, or to a proper mechanic.”

            “Thanks,” I ran my hand through my hair and rubbed my empty chest. It was starting to ache now. I almost said, “Can I have your number?” but the words died on my lips. I smiled, but it was a thin, weak smile.

            “Sure thing. Just be careful. No drag racing or anything.”

            “Haha…yeah, no.”

            I couldn’t think of anything else to say, so I let my heart be carried away in someone else’s coat pocket.

            I don’t know what happened to it after it left my sight, but I still feel it, occasionally, when it’s jarred suddenly, or if it gets squished between things, wherever it happens to be. I don’t think about it, much, except for on days when the wind makes the rain fall sideways, or when I see two people who made it passed a smile, and I wonder what I might have missed.