My wife wears a beard made of goat hair. She is only putting the false one on until she can grow a beard herself. When we walk to the twenty-four-seven, she twists some heads. Mostly men. And I say, Eyes off her, you fucks. These people are animals. Rat terriers turned loose on a rat-barn with the sliding doors padlocked behind them. They’re looking for a problem. People don’t know a thing about privacy, or manners. Today when we walked to the twenty-four-seven, I got a sixer and some peanut butter crackers. My wife dropped a bag of sunflower seeds on the counter. And the cashier said, Oh is that what she eats?


I jabbed a pen-knife into his trachea.


Nothing too major, I think he will live. But next time we go to the twenty-four-seven, he will know what not to say. There is no reason in people. You can only do. And some folks think my wife is doing this for attention, but she is not and they are wrong. She told me the beard makes people listen to her. She’s lowered her voice like a casket into baritone. And when we go to bed on the hay mattress, she is snoring before I can even close my eyes. Alcohol helps me sleep. The beer runs cool behind my adam’s apple, into my gut, and it distracts from the hay itch. And I love her. When you fall asleep stroking your wife’s chin hairs– that is when you know you love a person. That is when you find out what you would really do.