Maybe

            Picture it. It’s summer, long ago. Or maybe not so long ago. Regardless, it’s summer. It’s hot and dry and Minnesota, so it’s hotter and drier.

            We were just kids. Children. Barely sophisticated enough to maintain acceptable personal hygiene, much less tell right from mostly right from wrong.

            At least that’s what we tell ourselves, to justify what we did to that man that summer.

            It was summer, and we were kids, and naturally we were bored. So I suggested we be Red Riding Hood and the wolf. We both wanted to be the wolf. Normally, I’d give in, because it was hot anyway and being the wolf would make it even hotter. But he always got to be the wolf. We decided to settle it in a fair and civilized manner.

            We wrestled. I won.

            We trekked though the forest. My thick pelt was hot, very. My tongue lolled and dripped drool onto the forest floor. His golden curls shone daintily where the light hit them. His vivid red cloak trailed along the ground, collecting dusty dirty and crushed leaves at its edge.

            We wandered into someone’s yard. A dog was tied up, slender and short-haired and large. I growled at it, threatening, for I was the wolf and the dog was merely a dog.

            But the dog started barking. Stupid dog. Is this normal dog behavior?

            A man came out of the house. “What the dickens is that infernal din for?”

            We stood stock still. We were stiller than we have ever been in our lives. Then, very deep in my throat, I growled. I growled at the man.

            The man stared at me for a quiet second. Then the man growled back. The man growled at me.

            I turned tail and ran. He was hot on my heels. That he didn’t trip over his too-big red cloak was a small miracle. The man watched us flee.

            We got back to where we had started. I collapsed, panting, my tail wagging as if it could somehow push more air into my lungs. He wasn’t much better, gasping for breath, his cherubic porcelain face painted rosy red.

            “Why… did we hafta… run like that?” he asked.

            I thought for a bit. “It seemed appropriate.”

            We sat there for a moment, breathlessly silent. Then I said, “I don’t want to be Red Riding Hood and the wolf anymore.”

            We were ourselves again, and as ourselves we walked inside.

To be continued. Maybe. What do you think? Too confusing? Yeah, maybe.