Partly Cloudy, 64°
In a familiar scene out of the Ratty this past weekend, I was just a girl, standing in front of a boy, asking him if he wanted to buy some dog meat.
“Dog meat, dog meat, come get your dog meat!” I bellowed just as he caught my eye, smiling nervously with his British, bumbling charm and sad blue eyes. “Oh, hello you. I-I don’t know what to say, other than, I’m just a girl. And you’re just a boy. And I’m selling dog meat.”
“It’s really good,” I continued nervously with my buck-toothed American grin which I could tell you found foreign and endearing. “The dog meat, I mean. It’s worth a shot. Just like we are. Wanna try?”
At press time, I was bewitched, body and soul, by the proselytizer telling me I was going to Hell outside Faunce.
