It's The Saltwater Ones You Have

“It’s the saltwater ones you have
to watch out for. They feed on tears,
even if they’ve been dry for years,”
says Miss Crocodile. She drains her
glass, orders two more and pushes
one across to me. “They have good
memories.” I tell her I made
a serious mistake, thinking
I was supposed to steer clear of
hunters, the clumsy ones with bad
vision and good guns. No one warned
me about crocodiles, about
camouflage. I try to hug my
tail, then remember it’s gone. I’m
stupid, I say. She puts her long
snout against my cheek. “You’ll never
be safe once they come sniffing,” she
says. “They know where you live.” She claims
she once knew one: near-bright, ill-bred
and good at hiding everything
from booze to the tryst of the day.
I’ve listened to the story a
dozen times and never tire
of hearing her triumph, the way
she changes the ending each time
so her escape looks better and
smarter. She is no fool, not at
all. She came close to being turned
into a handbag, almost wound
up as a pair of boots. My bruised
ego is nothing compared to
that. Her eyes are shining. I am
her triumph, too. That’s why I’m here.
She has another lager in
front of me and urges me to
drink up. “The night is long, but so
is the road ahead of us.” She
slips something sharp-edged into my
pocket and hoists herself from the
barstool. “I gave him back the part
of his brain I’d excised and soon
after, we split. Enough’s enough.
Come, let’s blow this popsicle stand.”