My Cardboard Balcony

Caress the Nose by Belinda Roddie The sharpshooter kisses the wet, seeking snout of his rifle barrel - two pecks, one lick, muscle against metal. It's done some marvelous work today, sending bundles of feathers crashing onto the dry grass and instantly molting in premature decay. When he stoops to retrieve the meal, his fingers constantly caress the nose - that slender, flaring nostril rimmed with dark powder, everything there but the red-rimmed eyes. This is the hunter and his lover. They share work together. They share meals together. And most of the time, in the thick of a stifling August heat wave, they share a bed together, one smiling, the other snoring.

"It's a trap!" "Stop saying that." "IT'S A TRAP!" "You are not Admiral Ackbar!" "IT'S A TRAAAAP!" He kept bellowing it over and over as I served everyone a second helping of garlic mashed potatoes. Susan groaned very audibly before spooning large squares of butter into her spuds. "Honey," said her father, "don't you think that's a bit too much fat and carbs?" "IT'S A TRAP!"