Autumn is winding down; I do the haying, which is so mechanized it barely counts as farm work. I do a few friends’ fields, too — I owe them for some water they sent my way when the piping got screwed up last spring, after the messy thaw.
I spend some of that time thinking about your sexuality — the rape fetish, and desire to see other girls get pushed. I don’t expect to understand it, and I’m not all that worried about it But it’s not any kind of normal I’m familiar with, and just maybe I need a little more information.
I switch off the bailer, climb up into the cab of the harvester where it’s cool and quiet, and punch a phone number I haven’t looked up in while.
“Heinrich. This is a surprise. You finally decided you wanted some adult conversation?”
“I have Willis when I want that.”
“Ha, you still name your pigs Willis. You know the real Willis died of cancer two years ago, right? You don’t have to symbolically slaughter him every Christmas anymore.”
“Yeah, but it never gets old. Was his death painful?”
“Very.”