Kathryn Kulpa
This is the origin story you don’t need to hear. Child of my heart! There would not be enough ewws in the world.
You want us bravely stepping forward. You want intention. I can only tell you that came later. You don’t want to think about your parents young. You don’t want to picture us in grad school, lazy, lustful, when we lay together hurkle-durkle, making mornings into long extensions of the night. Sleeping, not sleeping, reaching for each other in and out of dreams. Your father’s feet, always warm. Mine, always cold. We agreed our day wouldn’t start until our feet touched the floor, and we made sure they didn’t. Heroic stretches to the nearby desk and chair for breath mints, oranges, a crumpled newspaper, a pen. No pencil. We dared the crossword, decided all the clues were about us. Petrarch’s dream girl: 17 down. Romeo’s one flaw, acc. to Juliet: 32 across. ‘What’s up?’-asking lagomorph: 21 down.
I thought rabbits were rodents, your father said, but I said no: more teeth, shorter tails. Less hate for bunnies than rats and mice. Who could object to rabbit dances under a wildflower moon? Only disgruntled Mr. McGregor types would harm rabbits.
And hawks, and hounds. Cats and coyotes. Foxes and ferrets. Bulldozers. Lawnmowers. The entire country of Australia.
A prey animal. Fearful. Watchful. Eat their own poop. Even eat their own babies, sometimes. Or hop off for the day, leaving them under a light layer of grass, hoping predators don’t find them.
How are we like rabbits, I asked. Your father laughed. We thought of the packet of condoms in the sock drawer across the room. It was so far. And the floor was so cold. And like careless, short-lived animals, we burrowed under the blankets and took our chances.
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Kathryn Kulpa is a New England-based writer with stories in BULL, Claudine, Fictive Dream, Flash the Court, Ghost Parachute, Moon City Review, The Sunlight Press, and Wigleaf. Her work has been chosen for Best Microfiction and Best Small Fictions and nominated for Best American Short Stories.