The cat licks around his kill spot on the patio as you might clean a lover’s wound. He is intent, thorough, keen. He snaps up the last smooth glob: Heart? Kidney? Soul? He eats open mouthed, jaws working like machinery. I imagine a Foley artist expressing the visuals through sound. Scouring pad sandpaper blancmange emery board crushed clothes pegs pebbles slap of a rump steak chewing a wishbone knitting needles stabbing an old balloon filled with syrup. I pick up my coffee cup and doughnut, first licking off all the sprinkles then plunging it in, right to the bottom.
Marie Little lives with her husband, three sons, and a very silly cat. She used to teach; she now makes Play-Doh bricks and writes in fields. Find Marie on Twitter @jamsaucer.