My number one girl, my love, my entomologist wife got on this jag, making vegan meals. Like sweet potato and peanut curry, that looked like an intestinal discharge from a GI tract affliction. Like something scraped from my boots returning from the barn. I failed to see the point. Somewhere I read tomatoes scream when you cut them. And how many chickens had she whipped around like a cheerleader’s baton before chopping off their heads and then plucking them naked? God, did I love roast chicken. God, did I love my wife. The upshot, though, is something’s got to die for something to live. She’d changed. I wanted her back. The real Sarah. So I took her hunting.
