The Day You Became A Cheetah

You’re in the mood for rabbit, and I know something’s off. I add it to the grocery list. I place the plastic-wrapped carcass in the cart. I follow the recipe I found online, seasoning it with rosemary and garlic, roasting it for ninety minutes until it’s a golden brown

You eat it whole, spitting out the bones. You let out a satisfied chirp. You don’t say much. Not anymore. Not since our conversation about moving in together last fall. You tell me you’re okay. Everything’s fine. But you’ve been roaming in the yard, pacing by the fence, back and forth, back and forth, hours after we’ve turned off the television for the night. You’ve been sleeping longer and longer, usually until 2 or 3 pm in the afternoon and I know I should say something.

There are solid black spots on your skin, first in small blotches on your hands and then multiplying to your chest and legs. Skin that has turned tan with a coarse coat. I run my hand along it, feeling tiny hives and healing cuts and know someday you’ll run, far into the forest away from me, away from us and I won’t ever see you again.