The Panther

There’s a panther sitting next to me on the old-leather couch. He purrs for a moment, then leans over and whispers, “She hates you, right?” And I say, “She kissed me just yesterday.” Then the panther extends his claws and rips open my flesh, but there’s no blood. There is bone, but no blood. She hates the sight of it, so I got rid of mine. Then the panther leans over and whispers, “She hates you, right?” And I think about how she fell asleep with her head on my shoulder and how much I don’t deserve the way she smiles at me.

I kissed her on the cheek for the first time and said, “I hope that was alright.” She said, “Of course it was,” and we kissed underneath the red glow of the exit sign for so long. Then the panther leans over and whispers, “Your brain ain’t right, buddy boy, now is it?” and I tell the panther to shove off. Go dig a hole out back by the septic tank and sleep with the sewage, you sad-sorry-sack-of-shitstained-shit.

And I wonder how long it’ll be before she realizes she hates me. Or how long it might be until I see that this couch isn’t leather, and that I bleed just fine.