by V.A. Vazquez

There weren’t many eligible bachelors in Dunwich, but even then, all the women stayed away from Wilbur Whateley. His beard was coarse and knotted, like the hide of a mountain goat, and he smelled like cracked eggs that’d gone off.

“Disgusting,” my sister would say, turning away to avoid his stare. He had to crouch down to shuffle through the bakery door, his woollen coat dragging on the cobblestones behind him.

I never turned away; I never refused to meet his eyes. Not the ones on his face and not the ones nestled in the crevices of his hips either.

V. A. Vazquez