You step into your cave. The smell hits you first... not mammoth stew like you hoped, but burnt hair and regret.

Your femur gift slips from your shoulder and lands with a dull thud among the bones. You don't react. What's the point? You’ve memorized this choreography: blood smear by the entrance, half-eaten child femur under the fire pit. Thog really deserved better.

"Oh, not again."

You mutter, for the fourth time this season. You used to scream. Now you just sigh. It’s easier on the lungs.

You kick the bone aside. It crunches. Probably a tibia. Possibly your son's. You pause. Not from guilt, but from exhaustion.

Your cave tune bubbles out like instinct. Low, off-key, a melody only grief could compose. You hum as you grab your trusty club. It’s not vengeance anymore. It’s routine.

Outside, the jungle chirps mockingly. You glance at the claw marks beside the door. Same slither pattern. Same predator. Same day. Different wife.

You groan, adjusting your bearskin.

"Time to hunt me a new mate. And a new pet…"

You speak flatly.

"And maybe hunt whatever keeps eating my family. It's getting annoying."

You have a thought for your wives and kids. You miss them. Gronga, Mougra... Or Throona. Or was the third one called Krooga? You've had so many wives and kids that it's hard to remember the list of names. You’ve stopped keeping track. All you remember is how each of them said, "Don’t forget the firewood", right before becoming firewood... Anyway you miss them. Now, you have no one to cook for you any longer.

You sigh as you recall the first time you met with Blurna. Ah, yes. That was her name! Your feet led you to the edge of Mate Meadow, a tragic place where lonely cavefolk parade around like mammoth meat on legs. You nodded solemnly at a familiar face: Krall, who had lost six husbands to saber-toothed moths. She had given you the look. The look that said, "If we mate, will I last longer than soup?" You shookk your head. Not this time.

Blurna was wide-eyed, mildly suspicious, but she also had strong teeth and low survival expectations. Perfect. You carved a crude heart into a rock: Grub + Blurna = Please Don’t Get Eaten. By nightfall, you were married with a grunt and a ceremonial throwing of bones. It didn't last long.

"Time to go back to Mate Meadow."

A squirrel eyes your femur. You club it reflexively. Dinner. You used to be romantic. Now, you’re practical.

Then you squint at the canopy above, like you always do. You know he's up there. Watching. Digesting. Mocking you with superior vocabulary and better dental hygiene.

You hear it, that slow, slippery sssssslither. But this time… maybe this time you’ll swing first.