by Vixie the Fox, reluctant romantic, full-time emotional hazard
I saw him once.
At the edge of the farmer’s market where the wild things flirt
with sustainable produce and poorly buttoned flannel.
He was russet like a heartbreak in motion—
eyes the color of secrets I hadn’t confessed yet,
and fur that probably smelled like campfire and unintended poetry.
In that one glance, I saw everything:
our den tangled with half-finished manuscripts,
arguing over how metaphysical is too metaphysical,
kissing like the world was ending—
(which, let’s be honest, it kind of is.)
I saw us raising confused baby foxes
who’d ask us what irony means,
and we’d answer in different metaphors
and fall in love again during the disagreement.
But then he looked at me—
and I said something like
“Hi–uh–you–these–I—berry—berryberries,”
and I think I curtsied?
Like a Jane Austen character having a neurological event.
He smiled.
Not cruelly. Not kindly.
Just…
as if he hadn’t already written me into the next chapter.
And walked on.
So I bought three pints of berries I didn’t need.
The cashier asked if I was throwing a party.
I said, “Sort of.”
And went home to cry into Carl
while drafting the wedding vows we’ll never say.
They start with,
“I saw you once…”
