Page 63 of Morsel

The rest of the meal continues, and the silence is filled with the dings of our forks and plates. At the end of dinner, Mona leaves the chunks of tofu to the side of her plate. I clear the table, and in the kitchen, I eat the tofu with my hands, pretending it’s her toes.

It’s not the same though. Plants aren’t meat.

I want her flesh.

“Thanks for the meal,” she says, her voice drifting through the house. I wipe my hands and head to the door. She pulls her purse strap higher on her shoulder, her camera strap on the other. “I’ll see you soon?—”

“Wait,” I say. “I got you a present.”

Her posture straightens. “Oh?”

I run to the bedroom and pull out a film camera—the one-time-use kind, an item I found in the mobile home when I moved in—and I give it to her.

“Thank you,” she says. “I love film. I’ll use it for the exhibition.”

She heads toward the door again, and panic forms in my rib cage. She can’t go. I can’t let her. If she leaves right now, she may never come back.

“Stay with me,” I plead.

My forehead creases. I try to keep my eyes open and form tears, my own performance to manipulate her this time. It’s so unusual to me though. I don’t feel like other people. I didn’t even cry when my mother died. Why would I cry when Mona leaves my home?

“It’s the end of the semester. My next exhibition is almost here,” she says. “I’ve got a lot of work to do.”

She can do whatever she wants, even leave me, and she knows it.

I press down the anger and soak in the desperation, crossing my fingers that this display of emotion works.

“Please, Mona,” I whisper. “Don’t leave me.”

Something about those words must unlock her sympathy, because she smirks and shakes her head. “You truly are persistent,” she teases.

“What can I say?” I rise to my full size and tower over her. “You inspire me.”

“Do I?” She trots over and grabs the olive oil off of the kitchen counter. “Let’s use this.”

Olive oil? To season her, we’d need more than that.

I force a smile. This isn’t about seasonings. This is about Mona. I need to fulfill her fantasies first, and later, we can get to mine.

It’s the only way to make my dreams come true.

Chapter 24

I lead Mona outside. She puts her personal camera on the back porch step, and the glowing red light on the device reminds me of a lighthouse in the darkness. An ache grows in my chest and drips down to my cock.

She’s here. So close to the pit. The flies buzz around us.

I could suffocate her under the flesh.

I would never do that though. Her meat is too good to be repurposed like that.

She slips out of her tights. Those bandage straps come into view, wrapping around her ankles and down over her missing toes, like carefully constructed lingerie leading the eye to the best parts of the body.

I’ve never liked lingerie; it always felt like it was created to hide something. And now, I tap my fingers together, struggling with the urge to yank those bandages off of her legs and see the healing flesh underneath. Mona needs time to heal though, and those bandages are the best way to make sure that her body can provide for me again.

“Rub it on me,” she says. She shoves the olive oil bottle into my hands. “Pretend it’s a marinade.”

A marinade.

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