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I have a story to tell, though no one will believe me. When I lie in my bed at night, I barely believe it myself. But in the light of day, as I see my wife and daughter playing in the backyard, I know it all to be true. The tale must be told, although few may ever read these words. But the truth of it should be laid down, for I can take no credit for the changes in my life.

I am a man of little worth, a real s.o.b. Barely able to hold on to a job, I manage to keep us from being homeless and enough food on the table. Berating my wife regularly for her inability to bring home much money from her piss-ant job at the local diner is one of my more favorable attributes. Her favorite excuse of only working when the kid is in school only drives me out of the house looking for another drink. And often, more than another drink. I told myself that it was normal to look for someone who appreciated me for the man I was. When I could honestly look in the mirror, I could see myself for what I was, a loser. 

I was one of the last ones left in the bar; the bell would be ringing soon with the last call. Several beers in, I was nursing one through blurry eyes and a slightly spinning room. The hands suddenly covering my eyes were soft but held on tight when I reached to remove them.

“Who do you think is the most beautiful woman ever?” The voice was soft, purring into my ear. A little deep, like Cher’s voice, I thought. 

“I’m going to take a guess here and say you,” I replied.

“No, I’m serious. Who do you think is the most beautiful woman in the world – now or ever?” The voice was persistent, almost insisting I answer with thought and purpose.

I nodded and answered. “Elizabeth Taylor, hands down. Those eyes and that body. My god, she was exquisite in her day.”

“Well, then, you are in luck,” the husky voice said, removing her hands and sliding into the chair on the other side of the table. With a flick of her hand, she summoned the bartender over. “We’ll have two more,” she said, pointing to my drink. 

The beauty sitting before me could have been Elizabeth Taylor’s daughter. Almost her twin. Those violet eyes, boobs so luscious you wanted to bury your face in the cleavage, and the darkest black hair falling in waves around her shoulders. Lips that needed kissing. 

I knew I needed to say something, but in my drunken stupor, I admit I couldn’t think of a response. I held out my hand to her, idiot that I was, to shake hers, I suppose. When I started to offer my name, she stopped me.

“Tell you what. You call me Elizabeth, and I’ll call you Richard. That works, right?” There was just a hint of laughter in her tone. The bartender returned with the drinks, and she pushed both toward me.

“You take one,” I said, pushing one across the table. 

“No, they are both yours. You’re going to need them,” the smile stayed on her face, but there was something else. Anticipation?

Suddenly, I felt apprehensive. There was something odd about her, beautiful though she was. The eyes, yes, it was the eyes. They were violet in the way that only Elizabeth Taylor could pull it off, but there were flecks of something else in there, moving around as if a reflection of something else, a star, maybe. 

It almost turned into a staring contest when the door opened to the bar to admit a new patron, and a dog barked from outside. Elizabeth Taylor jumped up, and I knew I was drunk, but I swear she wavered. That’s the only word that explains it. It’s like she wasn’t real, and she became wavy. The door slammed, and she sat back down, her aura returning to its previous state. 

“I hate dogs,” she said under her breath so I could barely hear. 

“Dogs? Why do you hate dogs?” Yes, I was drunk, but I’m a pretty good drunk. Years of practice. I can still pay attention. Well, mostly. 

Elizabeth Taylor didn’t answer, but the comment about dogs reminded me that my daughter wanted a dog, and I had promised a long time ago that I would get her the perfect dog. Only I had not. There were lots of broken promises. To my daughter and her mother, my wife. Even in my drunken state, this meeting with a woman claiming the name Elizabeth Taylor opened my eyes to the horrible person I had become. 

I raised my eyes to hers; she was staring at me, her eyes flickering violet and gold, a hypnotizing experience, to say the very least. 

“Very good,” she said, the laughter back in her voice. 

“What’s that?” I wasn’t sure how I would get out of this situation and why my intentions had changed, but I knew they had.

“I am very glad I get to play the part of the zenko with you, my funny little man. I do tire easily of always playing the part of the yako. So tedious; and sometimes quite unfulfilling. Do you realize how hard it is to digest some of your parts? Oh my, the liver especially. I do hate liver,” said the woman sitting with me, calling herself Elizabeth Taylor. 

“I beg your pardon?” I wasn’t sure I heard her correctly. 

“Yes, you may. I am quite happy to leave you with this. You have made the correct choice, little man,” said Elizabeth Taylor.

Why does she call me a little man, I thought. “I have no idea what’s going on here,” I told her.

“Yes, and it’s likely that you will never know what happened this night. But on the off chance that you might, I’ll tell you what has transpired during this turning point in your life. You’ll probably have to look it up later and figure it all out. Remember this word and do what you people do, doogle or google, whatever.”

Elizabeth Taylor stood and bent down to my ear, whispered one word, and then I heard such a swishing sound I looked down to see where it was coming from. Tails, many of them, coming from behind this exquisite woman. Glancing back up, I found the woman shrinking. I blinked and heard the scream from the only waitress in the bar. A fox, a rather large fox, ran out the door and into the night. Several tails were trailing from the back of that one fox. Elizabeth Taylor was nowhere to be found. 

As I said, I’m a pretty good drunk, and I remembered that word she whispered into my ear. Kitsune.

Elizabeth Taylor was correct. I googled it and found that the exquisite woman I shared a table with in a nondescript bar in the middle of nowhere was a fox spirit. A fox that could transform into a beautiful woman – or anyone else – when they so desired. The legend was from Japan, but the truth of it was right here in Nowhere, USA. This spirit fox could supposedly be good or bad, depending upon chance. The zenko kitsune is a benevolent spirit, a celestial being that would lend itself to doing good, but the opposite is true of the yako kitsune. The yako creates havoc and can become quite violent.

I believe that I barely escaped the yako kitsune. Elizabeth did, after all, speak of eating my inner organs. Perhaps she was the one that laid bare my soul for my own eyes to see and could leave me with the blessing of the zenko kitsune.

A fairy tale from the Japanese? As I sit here drinking my morning coffee – sober for three months now – and watching my wife and daughter play with our new dog (named Zenko), turning and waving at me through the window – I have no doubts. I was there, after all, with Elizabeth Taylor.