You Don’t Know Me
“You don’t know me,” she said.
When I got home that night, I noticed the smiling jack-o-lantern in my front yard was crushed. Not crumpled in on itself, not sunken as it decayed, but deliberately, maliciously crushed. I stood and stared at the mess, a gooey web of orange entrails that covered the side walk leading up to the front porch.