A Girl’s Secret
When girls rest their hair atop their heads in twisted towels, they’re hiding something. Don’t be fooled — it’s not just hair in there. It’s all knots and crevices and secrets and frog’s legs. Frog princes’ legs. In all of those winding towers on all those girl’s heads, you’d find a pair of slippery green legs, crossed in tea party fashion. Teehee. I’m not joking around. You can look for yourself if you can muster the courage. Just add a little mustard to your porridge and that should give you a kick, the embers alight!
But what you can do, you mustn't always follow through.
You can see it now already in your mind, an X of frog’s legs with two rubbery feet splayed out at the bottoms. What you might see is a cartoonish image, an innocent two smooth celery-like stalks, a two legs that have always been just so. But legs, if you think a little harder you might remember, legs come attached to bodies, do they not? And how, pray, do you think that those girls have come across fully detached frog prince’s legs? Have they bought the legs at the butcher, already cleanly removed? Which butcher do you know — which one — sells frogs, much less frog princes?
The girls must have done it themselves.
The girls must have taken pairing knives to the frog princes and pressed the blades into the soft, stretchy skin between the tip of the thighbone and the base of the hip. Almost as though scissored — snip, snip, snip — our little frog princes’ skin would fall away. No, I got carried away. The sinews would scream apart, a snap and a flail, a violent goodbye. Goodbye.
