That Day

She lives in the desert with skin the color of sandstone and the texture of an orange. She’s a man’s man if you ever saw one. Her carbine seems to have a mind of it’s own, never knowing, when in the course of conversation it swings from her side and fires. Who knows where or at what- - -yet if you investigate you will find a toad or scorpion, or rather what is left after the damage of a 44 bullet. She lives alone….now. A strange looking trophy resides in her bedroom. Bleached white, the bones of a man, draped with gun and holster seem at peace, among the stuffed rattler and the panther. How love visited a young eastern visitor in such a god forsaken place, will remain her one gift…. her one earthly secret. They were at the fountain, close by, in the foothills. On a bed of burlap and willow branches they enjoyed the shade and the change of weather. Exploring each other endlessly they devoured each detail with explicit honesty and fascination. They stripped and cleaned a rattlesnake preparing to roast it over the open fire. The smell, the noise, their strange scent, all befuddling the night beast, slowly circling their fire. The panther attacked! Her lover, not armed was easy prey for the hungry beast. As the panther slowly took his life, the young man struggled into the fire, with arms and legs and teeth latched onto and into the animal with a demon like death grip. The two were consumed. She never was the same after that. No one mentions the bones. No one remarks about rattlers or panthers. No one ever mentions the fountain and no one has ever seen another panther.