Salting Slugs

Bo used to salt slugs. 

I didn't like it, but I tolerated it because Bo had a zip-line in his backyard that led to the marsh. 

He'd put a salt shaker in his pocket and glide down to the swampy edge of the woods where the slugs were most likely to hide themselves from the sun under damp leaves in the afternoon.

I remember watching the little slugs, dusted in white grainy salt. Shrinking. Shriveling up, it looked painful. Those slugs were an open wound to me. 

Bo sprinkled them with precision. It wasn't for fun, he wasn't ever smiling. It was more experimental. Eyes focused, salting at a steady pace. 

My dress always covered in mud, constantly shifting in my boots to keep from sinking. It bothered me, but I accepted it. I wondered why I didn't say anything. But then, the zip-line was so fun.