by Tenille Bonoguore
I knew she was trouble from the first time I saw her, and believe me, I took my sweet time soaking in the picture: all hips and curves, legs snaked in nylon, a maroon wool sweater cut just low enough to hint at luscious flesh beneath. She burst through the door, breathless and looking for help, but something told me it was me that was in trouble. I took the job – of course I did! – and not long after we were married, but I knew my time was gonna be short. When the day finally arrived, and Young Johnny Crebo came bursting through my door, pistol in one hand, crazed look in his eyes, I couldn’t help but smile. I’d trained him myself, so I knew she’d gone and hired the best crack-shot in the entire county. If that ain’t love, I tell ya, I don’t know what is.
Tenille Bonoguore is caught in Canadian immigration limbo. She spends her days baking and pursuing increasingly obscure projects in a bid to feel productive.