There is a tundra wrapped around her legs, wolves and the moon. Not long ago this would've been a ridiculous sight. Wolves, they come and go in popularity. They're loved and despised and shot at from helicopters, and people look at them in hazy shopping mall portraits. They are next to stars on her thighs, surrounded by snow. What are they protecting, the lecher in me asks. I have heard him enough to know not to answer.
The rest is black, shirt and shoes. The first rule of any ensemble really, pick a focal point and stick with that. She wants us to see these wolves, these legs, her lifestyle, her style. She wants me to. She wants me, too? I know better than to answer.
Her hair swings back and forth, back and forth, hypnotizing, hypnotic, swing, swing, hair, hair, wolf, wolf. I am out of shape. I could never outrun a wolf, I think, I am fairly certain of that. I doubt I could outrun her. I watch her get smaller and smaller, the tundra more obscure, it's getting warmer as she goes. Sometimes a man wants to be caught.
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