Page 55 of Morsel

But one more toe won’t make that much of a difference.

“It won’t be a toe you need,” I argue. “Come on, Mona. I want to see your face.” Warmth rushes over my body as I imagine her mouth contorting in love and agony. “I want to see the pain you have to endure for me.”

She stiffens, her shoulders rigid. And with that small change, I know she’s annoyed with me.

She curls away, moving her hips out of my crotch. “I have to teach soon,” she says.

I sigh. Teaching. Right. She can’t suddenly go to class in a wheelchair. That would cause gossip, and gossip can lead to personal issues for her.

Mona loves controversy though, especially if it has to do with her art.

A part of me knows that her irritation doesn’t have to do with teaching at the university; it has to do with the fact I keep asking for more.

You warned her that this would happen, my brain argues. How can she expect you to stop now?

There’s a solution somewhere. We can make this work. If I find another way to be satisfied—to keep us satisfied—then Mona can keep most of her fingers and toes. We can live together for a long time. Maybe even into old age.

The thought is barely formed before the words come out. “What if we eat people together?” I ask.

She rolls over to face me with a deadpan expression. “I’m doing a project where I’m the one being eaten,” she says dryly. “I’m not a cannibal.”

Her words slice through me. It’s like she’s cutting off the space between us, even though we’re mere inches from each other.

Is she looking down on me for eating her?

Shame tingles in my toes. No. She’s right. Eating people and being eaten are two completely different things. Feeding Mona another human won’t please her.

What am I supposed to say now?

“That’s not what I meant,” I say. “I know you’re not a cannibal. I just mean—I don’t have to eat all of you.” I scratch the back of my neck. “I’ll make it work with other meats, you know? I’ll only eat from you one morsel at a time.”

Panic flutters in my chest. I should be offended that she thinks being a cannibal is an insult, but I can’t even be mad at her right now. I just want to keep her with me.

I fucked up. I fucked up big time.

This is love. I can save this.

I have to.

“Right, little morsel?” I wheeze. “Just one small bite each time. Enough to whet my appetite. I’d never really hurt you like that.”

Her eyes hold mine, and there’s a lack of emotion there, as if she’s keeping herself together just to get this conversation over with as quickly as possible. Just like the sex workers.

Still, the words are on the tip of my tongue, full of weight and emotion, and so desperate to come out, to be everything for her. I love you, Mona, I want to say, and I’m so grateful for everything you’re doing for me. I’m so grateful, in fact, that I don’t want to mess this up. I want to keep you forever. I want to keep you like you’re mine, so that it’s up to me—only me—to keep you safe. I’ll keep you locked away for my pleasure. And I’ll be good to you, Mona. I’ll worship you the only way I know how until there’s nothing left between us. Until we’re together, combined in one body. One soul. One flesh. Isn’t that what love is?

My lips move, but none of those words come out. Instead, my head fills with images of my mother dead on the dining room table, the hole in her stomach crawling with maggots. Her sawed-off tongue in my hands, stiff and spongy. A savory cake.

Then those images morph and become Mona’s foot with two missing toes. Patches of skin picked from her calves, like cupped pepperoni slices plucked from a pizza.

“It’s just a toe,” I say quietly. “I don’t have to eat the rest.”

“You’re being selfish,” she snaps.

Our naked bodies are so close that our heat is an inferno; at the same time, those words send ice through my veins. There are bandages on her fingers. Wraps around each ankle and each missing toe. Gloves on top of her hands and socks on her feet. Everything to keep her safe and sealed. Barriers guarding her from me. And she could have more protection. We could be in different beds, different rooms, different universes, and the fact would remain the same.

Mona thinks I’m selfish.

My mother used to say things like that. She’d call me selfish when all I wanted was to not be hungry anymore. To be full and satisfied for once. To feel like I had something I could call my own.

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