The wolf is at the door asking for a cup of sugar, but you know better than to open up because you remember him saying at the last community bake sale how glad he was he could buy sweets because he hates to bake, and you should ignore him, but you’re just too honest (you always have been) and you can’t resist your nature, so you take a deep breath before you lean down to the mail slot—which you’ve been meaning to tape over for months, not because you think he could get in (you’re not that paranoid, despite what everyone says), but because you don’t need to breathe his general miasma of swine and smoke any deeper into your lungs—and you tell him you know he doesn’t really need sugar, because he doesn’t bake, he said so himself, and he’s nothing but a big old hairy fraud, and he laughs (even though you’ve told him how much you hate it when he laughs at you when you’re being serious) and says you’re right, you’ve got a good memory, and you’re rightfully wary (and here you soften a little, because no one else ever believes you, ever), but he doesn’t need sugar for baking (and here he pauses just long enough to make you wonder what he’s up to, and you hold yourself at curious lest you cross into drawn in), and he says he’s just brewed a nice pot of coffee, and though he loves coffee, he can’t stand to have it without something a little sweet, so he thought of you—since you’re a baker, he quickly adds—and even if you didn’t happen to have any pie (not that he’d have felt entitled to ask for free pie anymore, given how things have changed between you, no, he’d have offered to buy it from you), you’d surely at least have a little bit of sweetness to lend him, just a pinch of sugar for his bowl, and maybe you wouldn’t mind a little something strong and dark in your own cup, which he’d be happy to share, if you catch his drift, and you do, and you step away from the mail slot and head toward your pantry, calling back over your shoulder how you do indeed catch his drift, you do, and you can just picture him licking his chops, and shudder at how that used to turn you on, and you realize it was no wonder people didn’t take you seriously, first worrying about the sky, then falling for that fox, now with this wolf at your door, and you think about how much time you wasted falling for their corny-ass come-ons (then again, you love corn—and they took full advantage of that weakness) and by the time you grab what you’re looking for and head back to the door you don’t feel one bit sorry when you shove the packet of Splenda through the mail slot and say, “Suck on that.”
