Artemisia

Matthew is working on a sculpture. His stained clothes make him look like he escaped some secret fantasy of mine. I stare, drooling, for a bit too long before his chuckle gets me to force out something.

“I’m not that hungry,” he answers with a grimace, making me feel guilty.

Something about our interaction feels strange, and I cross my arms wanting to scold him playfully to loosen up the situation. “That isn’t healthy. A wolf like you not being hungry is a bad sign.” ...