He invited me to a fancy dress party near his house. I was his uncomfortable moll, my dress long, hot and heavy, embellished with bad taste. Before we left for the party, his animals needed tending to. The stretched-out garden was full: goats, rabbits, hens, a dog at his side. Here, he said, handing me a limp rabbit, back-end up front, he needs Vaseline, showing me the sores. I did as I was told, face screwed up like a dishrag. Later, at the party, from under his drawn-on moustache, he said he pulled its neck anyway. My drink tasted sour.
Marie Little lives near fields with her family and writes in the shed with buckets of tea. One day she might finish her children’s novel. Find her on Twitter @jamsaucer.