She watched the carnage through parted fingers. The first lion caught the gazelle’s hind quarter, the next its neck.
Even on the television, she could hear the cracking bones.
In the next scene, half a dozen lions gathered around the corpse, taking turns tearing off hunks of bloody meat.
She sleeps poorly. In her nightmares she runs through vines and jungles as the cats snarl and claw.
When she wakes, her husband has breakfast made. He’s been a stay-at-home dad for a year now. Her job as an attorney is lucrative enough, and David has no ego.
She watches him do something with his fingers, tracing in the air. Their daughter giggles and draws loops with her thumbs. “What are you doing?” she asks. David explains that they’ve invented their own sign language. “Sign, I love you, Mommy.” But she won’t. The girl’s become stubborn and shy now.
She always passes by the bus stop on her way to work. The moms from their track mansions wear Gucci sweats and Jimmy Choo heels, even in winter. Four of the women circle David, laughing. Their daughter is off to the side.
David drops his grin as she rounds the corner, revving the motor. They all gape. They scream and leap.
So, this is how a lioness feels, she thinks, going in for the kill.