The Last Taxidermist's Lovely Young Wife

In White Bear Lake, we rode a tandem bike. I pretended to know how.

When we crashed into the bookstore, he went inside and bought me a stuffed polar bear. For our anniversary, he presented me with a taxidermied version. It was a mouse, white as a ghost.

I told the police a polar bear had mauled him. To some degree, they believed me. His wounds were consistent with a gaping jaw going straight for the moist warmth of organ meat.

Now, he is haunting me: spinning spokes, his spectral song.

I see him at dinner.

I taste him, too.