Fiction | March 01, 1989

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The woman I’ve been seeing lately won’t eat wild meat. Her ex-husband had been a hunter, and perhaps he’d been brutal in other ways or simply a bad cook, but his memory has tainted all wild game for her. This seemed a shame the first time I invited her for a duck dinner and she pushed aside the main course to concentrate on the acorn squash, brussel sprouts, and wild rice. She’s a big-boned woman with a rope of wheat-colored hair down her back and vulnerable blue eyes. She’s thinking, she says, of becoming a vegetarian.

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