Page 12 of Morsel

I also know I can’t scare her. I can’t let her know the personal ad was only the beginning of my infatuation with her.

“I did,” I say.

“And my art didn’t anger or scare you?”

I laugh. “Scare me? I’m not scared of art.”

She presses her lips together, reading me. My chest compresses under her scrutinization. Is she fishing for a compliment, then? Is that what she meant when she asked if I was scared of her art?

Her art confused me. Though judging by her fans last night, she probably wouldn’t like hearing that. I can’t risk pissing her off, not when I’m this close to getting what I want.

“Your art intrigued me,” I lie.

Her grin loosens, and she reveals her white teeth, almost the same color as her skin. Even though she’s short, she peers down at me from her chair like she’s a giant. She must have risers under the furniture to give herself a bigger presence, an arrangement created to make her students feel small. To make me feel small. Like prey.

Why does it seem like she’s the one hunting me?

“Cannibalism is more common than we think,” she says. “In the animal world, a mother may eat the weakest infant in the hope that she lives to take care of the other babies. Or perhaps it’s too crowded and the only logical option is to eat whoever is beside you. There’s scavenging too. Some mates even consume each other to increase the chances that they’ll successfully procreate.”

I blink rapidly. I don’t think much about the animal world. At least, not the living ones. I can’t say that out loud though, because while her art doesn’t scare me, I don’t know how she would feel about my animal meat sleeves.

“But humans?” Mona laughs. “Cannibalism is far too taboo for them, but not us.” She leans forward on the desk, her small breasts smashed against the wooden surface, plump and meaty and juicy, begging me to consume them. “What’s your name?”

“Kent.”

“Tell me, Kent”—her voice lowers—“did your mother try to eat you, or do you want to consume me because you’re a predator? Why are you so drawn to eating women?”

Heaviness lurks in my body, my muscles tense. She’s trying to psychoanalyze me. As if my cannibalistic interests can be summed up by a few moments in my childhood. As if it all leads back to my mother.

I drop my gaze to my hands, my fingers fidgeting with energy. I can’t get mad at Mona. She’s the only woman I’ve ever met who may actually like this as much as I do. I have to play along.

“It’s not my mother,” I say calmly. “It’s always been about eating a beautiful woman.” I lift my eyes, meeting Mona’s. “Like you.”

Then I stare down at my hands again.

My mother wasn’t beautiful. She was lifeless.

Mona is different from her. Mona is like the darkness at the end of a tunnel. Like hope. And at the same time, she’s worse. A bittersweet poison.

Even if my instincts say she’s dangerous, I have to do this.

She smirks. “You’re perfect, and you don’t even know it.”

I pull back slightly, a blood vessel on my eyelid twitching. I’m perfect? What does that mean? What is she hiding? It’s like she’s inviting me into a game. Like she’s confident she can successfully execute an ambush. Like she knows she’ll eventually kill me.

Mona’s delighted coo fills the air, causing my mind to go blank.

“There’s a private screening I’d like for you to attend,” she says. “I put together a film collage. I think you’ll like it.”

She licks her lips, and I salivate at the thought of that flickering muscle. It’s not big enough to match the beef tongue in the offal pit, and yet it’s meaty, like a medallion of steak. Her tongue would work well in a taco, seasoned with oregano and marjoram.

“A movie?” I ask. “You filmed it?”

“It’s a work-in-progress for my next exhibition.” She scans me with a vacant expression. “You’re in my art criticism and theory lecture, aren’t you?”

She recognizes me then, even if it’s only been one class. After I figured out who she was in the personal ad, I sat in the back of her lecture and listened to her speak, hoping that a clue might slip out of her mouth and reveal the true nature of her desires. A sign that she wasn’t faking it like everyone else.

“Auditing,” I say.

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