I’ve never felt desire, but when he climbs onto the bar stool, his denim thighs rub together with a swishing sound, sending a tingle into my hips. I look at the carpet to compose myself and watch in shock as my ankles lengthen, snapping out from under my pant legs.

After I skip home through a canola field, I have such sweet dreams: I’m sleeping under the stars in a bed of freshly mown hay. In the morning while I’m brushing my teeth, my elbows pop out of joint. It’s hard to get them through the café doorway, but the coffee line lets me through to the front.

The smell of the flax bread at the bakery sends me over the edge. My taut belly practically vibrates. All eleven of my abs that used to jiggle feel crisp. It’s like puberty without the pus—this delicious awareness of my body.

At work I catch myself staring out the window at the weeds along the boulevard. It’s hard to follow what my teammates are saying; I want to pull their heads closer to my belly to hear. But when my manager shuffles papers, the stridulation sends my office chair careening toward them. A little jumpy this morning? he chuckles. When my assistant starts clicking her pen, I’m so hot I blush. I need to get a hold of myself before I do something embarrassing.

I needn’t have worried. By evening, I could care less about impressing anyone. After spitting digestive fluid on the bus driver who made me run, I settle in for some grooming. When I get up in the middle of the night for a stalk of kale, I can sense the walls without touching.

I step out into my backyard and sink into the damp grass, breathing deeply. My mind is empty. I open my eyes when a dewdrop lands on my antennae. I lick the grass blade in front of me. My knees quiver.

I hear his legs singing. Click Click Click. Like a classroom of sweaty teenaged boys typing my name.

I fly over the fence, wrap myself around a hyssop stalk, and thrum, I’m here. The final transformation: my abdomen elongates, pulsing with the desire to plunge into the soft, soft earth under my wings.