I remember that time. It was a conversation we had one warm day, though for you, it must have been late in the night.

You said you loved the woods and I said I hated them but I’d be willing to go if we could be wolves. To my surprise, you agreed.

We would rent a cabin and go to the forest together.

I imagined the smell of redwoods and felt the cold, moist soil beneath my bare feet. Yes. We’d take off our clothes and we’d run into the thicket of trees, skin flushed as blood rushed through our veins.

I didn’t know how the change would really feel but I thought it would be like fire, some molten liquid coursing through our veins, shaping and changing us till our hands became paws and our mouths turned to muzzles.

Everything would be better then; the sights, the sounds, the scents.

We would be free. Giving in to the animal, our instincts, just as it should be.

And I admit, these fantasies of mine did not stop there. My wolf would gaze at you and your charcoal fur. Ironically, it would be me that had the light fur, a cream color. Only our eyes matched, that soft brown.

You’d bump me and give a friendly growl then I’d tackle you and we would go rolling across the dirt, fur giving way to skin and flesh once more. You on top of me.

My favorite part is that it wouldn’t matter that I wasn’t some model, fit or fair skinned. You’d look at me as if I were the only person that existed. As if I were truly meant for you.

But what is the truth, this disturbing reality? I hate it and I think I hate you.

You said you loved the woods.

And I said I loved you.