The Lion, the Witch, and Circus Snacks

On the day the circus came, Dove’s nose bled so profusely she was allowed to leave math class early.

This is of no consequence, but all that it means is that Dove saw the ringmaster before anyone else.

He was tall, Dove told you, tall and young. Some could call him handsome, I suppose. Dove has lost most of her love for men; she has five brothers, all older than she is.

She told you all this while rust-red sugar dissolved on her tongue; while her nose had stopped bleeding, her mouth had not. You wondered which taste was more potent on her tongue – the cloying cloud-like saccharine or the iron of all your childhood scrapes.

You wondered if you had kissed her whether you would have found out, or if she would have tasted like she always did, like cold water and mint, like orange juice and sweetened cream.

But you satisfied your palate with caramel popcorn and watched grass grow greener beneath the pads of hoop-jumping felines, their features so much gentler than the exaggerated caricatures the statues wear at your brother’s university.

Even now, you wonder how many lions you would need to make things grow again.