eating twelve poached quail eggs, topped with homemade hollandaise sauce and Ossetra caviar before a solitary stroll around the pond. Wulf in the afternoon swatting flies with his tail; walking backwards in the forest; dancing. Wulf at night mixing an aperitif with the name of Rimbaud’s Left Hand: absinthe, Benedictine liqueur, orange liqueur, freshly squeezed lemon juice, pineapple juice, one egg white, and a few drops of rosewater for good measure, followed by a dinner of crown roast pork and seasoned pork sausage stuffing. Wulf at bedtime: wine-colored silk pajamas, white Australian sheepskin throw tucked under his chin, Gaspard de la Nuit on the bedside table, the words “I see it now. My fate is to hang…” going through his head as he falls asleep. Then, those dreams of Little Red all night long.

Jenene Ravesloot