Rhino

She had to be butch just by looking at her. Her voice stubborn with a bare tone of independence. Her hair a fried mocha hue—fleeing strands gravitate away from the pony tail strain. This wasn’t what was unique about her apparent masculine disposition. She made a comment, light and simple. She said, “I was with a woman once,” Told you she was butch, “who had a tattoo of a Rhino.” She paused and laughed at the obscurity of a Rhino tattoo. Not once did her eyes look up from the glass case she peered into—jewelry findings staring back up at her, “Little did I know she snored like one.”