He is slipping, salivating. Each step makes his teeth chatter. It’s the withdrawal, he thinks. His head is buzzing.
Shirley is nonchalant. If she notices his current state she does not protest or reassure him with licks of her gooey tongue. She stops often to graze on the tough Mojave grass. Doesn’t she know where they are going, Willy thinks, doesn’t she know who we are meeting? Ma and pop and the girl and every pair of wandering eyes that he is sure will give them a once-over, a twice-over as they come back to town. “Boy ain’t right,” he can hear them saying. Such a shame, such a shame, left on his wedding day, ya’hear?
One time Shirley turns her back to him as she browses. Her tail flicks back and forth, back and forth, and Willy is transfixed. From his holster he pulls the laser rifle that has served him so well and trains the sights on one of her heads. His beloved Brahmin is oblivious.
He stands like that, shaking, thinking about how much faster he would move without this damn cow. Then he lowers the rifle. Shirley is absorbed in her meager feast and her tail flicks back and forth, back and forth, and Willy is transfixed.
