Page 2 of Morsel

That’s part of why I like living alone. You can’t predict if your housemate will appreciate your conservation efforts or your sexual needs. You also can’t know if they’ll hate what you’re doing and report it, or worse, if they’ll leave you.

Still, I dream of having a woman here.

A rabbit bounces across the dirt driveway. I imagine a predator somewhere, a wolf maybe, stalking it. Waiting for the right moment to strike. A feast waiting to be devoured.

The cool wind whips past my cheek. The landfill’s compactor shudders on, the engine’s whine reminiscent of a semi truck; it’s one of the only reminders of civilization out here. Unless you invite someone to these fields, cars don’t come down this way. And as there’s no reason for the power lines out here, I keep a generator at the back of the mobile home. I switch it on, and it powers the house. I also have a small one inside for my fridge and freezer. You can never be too careful with food.

I toss the beef tongue and heart into the offal pit. The organs slop on top of the pink and green sea, and flies buzz out of the hole to greet me. I smack them away, then grab a sack of salt and pour some over the top of the pit. Then, after shoveling some salted organs into a wheelbarrow, I take one scoop at a time up the steps to the industrial grinder. The meat slops into the giant hopper. I power on the grinder, and it rattles away. The raw flesh sloshes into the oversized funnel, and the metal blades chirp like a million dying birds. Not many people would appreciate my hobby, but it gives me a sense of control and reassurance that I’ll never be left unsatisfied.

As I’m storing the first batch of ground meat in a plastic container, the low rumble of a car cuts through the metallic grinding. I turn off the machine.

A car is parked in the driveway, and at the front of the home, a brunette with light skin beams at me.

No makeup. That’s good.

I clutch my filet mignon to my side and wave with my free hand.

“Sorry I’m late,” she says. “I had an emergency.”

“No big deal. Let’s eat.”

I open the front door, and she enters the home before me. She studies the dried hydrangea wreath clinging to the door hook. Pink rose wallpaper peels in sections of the home, and an old box TV sits on the floor of the living room. I don’t use it much. There’s not much I’m invested in updating out here, unless it has to do with meat.

The brunette points at an old circular photograph. “Is that your mother? She’s gorgeous.”

I peek at the brunette’s bare legs: skinny, scrawny little things. Nothing more than chicken thighs. Not that I mind. You can enjoy a lean thigh every now and then, especially with the right preparation.

“She is pretty,” I say.

I head to the kitchen and unwrap the butcher paper. Even with the hint of sulfur and iron wafting up from the meat, I can smell something else. Something synthetic. I wrinkle my nose. Perfume. The brunette’s perfume. Honeysuckle, maybe.

A headache blooms across my forehead. I grit my teeth and shove it all down. This escort service is new to my patronage, but I told them to keep her as natural as possible. Honeysuckle is technically a natural scent, but it’s too floral for me.

I’m already irritated.

She’s not wearing makeup though. I have to give them credit for that. Besides, I need this to work. Tomorrow, I’ll meet Mona for the first time, and I don’t want to blow my load the second I shake hands with my dream girl.

I gesture toward the bathroom. “Help yourself,” I say to the escort. “Lay on the dining table when you’re ready.”

“Thanks, baby.” She disappears behind the closed door.

My groin tingles as I listen: the faucet runs, the toilet flushes, and fabric swishes against skin. There’s still hope. Even if she’s wearing perfume, she has to be enough to satiate my needs tonight. I have to give her a fair shot.

The bathroom door opens. The dining table creaks. I lick my lips and head toward my meal.

The brunette lies on the teal-painted table. Black silk covers her breasts and cunt.

My back pinches, the strain aching through my body. I had specifically asked the manager for a woman who would be naked on my dinner table, as close to a basic, quiet woman as possible. No makeup. No jewelry. No perfume. No fucking lingerie. It’s not hard. My only special request—the reason the last escort company refused my continued business—was the willingness to do knife play.

The table’s teal paint is cracked underneath her, and it exposes splotches of the brown wood. Almost like her. An unnecessary blotch on my plate.

I blink and center myself. Perhaps she’s the only one willing to participate in knife play.

I can make this work.

I have to give her a chance.

It’s just a fantasy, I remind myself. It’s not like I’m actually going to eat her.

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