The buck was still alive when we got to him, breathing shallow. My husband nodded his head once, set his rifle down. The bullet hit the deer in his neck, making a neat black hole from which a thin stream of blood began to flow. My husband pulled the trigger and exhaled slowly. The buck turned his head and looked at us with black, glassy eyes. My husband raised his rifle, inhaled deeply, held his finger against the trigger. The creature was indeed majestic-its musculature pronounced, body thick, standing tall. His shoulders slumped as his hope faded but then a massive buck galloped into our sights. He is always looking for God even though he has little faith left. He believes killing brings him closer to God. “I want to kill something majestic today,” my husband said earlier that morning. Several does passed before us but my husband held one finger to his lips. We spent hours in the deer blind, doused in deer piss, waiting. My husband’s beard smelled like coffee for the rest of the day. He drank coffee from a thermos that used to belong to his father, who is dead from black lung.
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In the cab of his truck, I leaned against his arm, my eyes closed. As we dressed, I still felt him inside me, sticking to my thighs. When my husband took me hunting with him, he told me not to shower after he lay on top of me heavy, sweaty, his lips pressed against the dark curve of my neck. There is a rawness to how he touches me, as if he is preparing himself for what he is about to do. There is a quality to his efforts that is different, more intense. He always makes love to me before the hunt. At four in the morning, he shook me awake. Last deer season, he took me on a hunt with him.