Progress

The hen took off its beak. Curious she thought, that it remained so red removed from the face. The color she reasoned came from blood and cells. Molecules fermenting in a stew of bacteria. As all living things are.

With purpose she cataloged the derelict expressions his face dared to churn forth. In minutes mediocre. In abridged equations of the theory of man. Lying never suited him unless it suited his agenda. The truth was whatever he had decided of it.

Take your clothes off she pleaded. Violently urgent to know. What of him she could still touch amongst all the moments she'd imagined. It was real, he begged. As real as you wanted of it. The geese were shot. The dogs retrieved their carcasses. We cooked the meat. We chewed it.

How it tasted was your decision.