Nonfiction | January 21, 2016

You are being romanced by William Wallace, the real one, not the blue-faced, thick-fingered, pre-nutjob Mel Gibson version, while you lie sleeping next to your snoring husband in real life. That kilt, those thick, dirty thighs, all that bushy chest hair, the crust of Scottish sweat dried over older layers of Scottish sweat, smelling of bog moss and political passion. He grabs you by the hair and stretches your neck taut and you wake up at civil dawn, the boulders of the Highlands disappearing into Ikea curtains and coordinated wall art from Marshalls Home Goods, Your seven-year-old is standing at the side of your bed with paths of tears coursing down her cheeks and a mutilated hamster in her soft, cupped hands.

This essay is not currently available online.