Petunia

Petunia lives in the perpendicular place where the cupboard meets the floorboards. At twilight she skulks outward, moon-drunk, leaving bite marks in the butter, dusty footprints across polished countertops. She retreats in reverse at dawn, macerates the night’s events.

Eventually they set traps for her: sharp steel and soft cheese. She surveys them with narrow eyes and twitching nose, chewing through their wires in return, savouring the electric tang.

Next Monday the exterminator will come, his cloying chemicals leaving her breathless and bloated and bloody; but for now, she patters across the kitchen, blissfully unknowing, lungs swelling with fresh, star-soaked air.