When I caught sight of the flashing eyes on that little
rectangular screen, your automatic grin hanging open in the suburban heat, I
felt the thrill of the exotic roll through my spine. Never before had
I seen you in the flesh. In the past you had always remained trapped
behind a harsh screen or some sort of elaborate cage. Now you were here, flesh
hanging neatly off of bird-hollow bones, the tail that was depicted as
luxurious in the moving ink glorified now in the reality of its limp, rag-like
scarcity. I prowled outside eagerly, imagining you as a motion picture in the
flat sunlight, and you disappointed me. Your body was a skeleton wearing a fur
coat and propped up on four legs. Your grin looked stupidly murderous,
delighting in the pleasure of a lolling tongue coated in the red of your
nourishment. The flash of your eyes was not only a trick of the camera; it was
constant, two round coins of light perpetually suspended in your anxious gaze.
It made you look greedy, like the raccoon that refuses to unclench its fist
around the shining glint of metal that eventually leads to its death. You
appeared frantic and covetous, and shrewd only in the ways that would satisfy
your filthy cravings. You appeared human, in the most unsatisfying, base way. I
watched you limp to whatever hole you clung to as your own, and the stars faded
from my eyes. You were only one of us.