Page 20 of Morsel

I pick up my menu. Mona fiddles with a camera.

“What do you usually get here?” she asks.

That’s right—if she is a vegetarian, then she probably doesn’t have many options here. I should have suggested a different restaurant, but I didn’t, because I need the steak to show her what I want from her body.

“The filet mignon,” I say. “Rare. You’re a vegetarian, right?”

She laughs, then places the camera on top of the table.

“I eat meat,” she says. “I don’t usually go to chain restaurants though. I’ll get the filet too.”

My spine stiffens. It seems like a jab at my economic status. I don’t let those insecurities surface though. Even if she usually only eats at exclusive restaurants, she agreed to dinner with me. She asked me to be in her art.

The server returns, and Mona orders. “Two rare filet mignons. Oh, and a glass of cabernet for me.”

I rub my chin. I don’t say anything though. I like saving money, but if Mona wants wine, then we’ll get wine. Besides, they say that a glass of red wine every now and then is good for the heart. The better her organs are working, the better she’ll taste. Hypothetically speaking, that is.

Forks and knives ding against dinner plates. Children whine. Men lecture.

I should say something, shouldn’t I?

“How long have you been doing art?” I ask.

My cheeks redden. Doing art? What the fuck is wrong with me? No one does art. She probably thinks I’m a total idiot now.

I correct myself. “Creating art, I mean?”

She lifts her nose slightly, a flash of condescension in her expression. Then she smiles.

“My whole life,” she says. “It’s a part of me.”

My shoulders strain as I mull over those words. If art is a part of her, then maybe cannibalism is a part of me too. My interest started young. No matter how hard I try or how many therapists I go to, I can’t get rid of the urge. It’s been this way since I can remember.

This time, I don’t meet her eyes. In a low voice, I ask, “Why are you doing this?”

In my periphery, I see her straighten, giving me her full attention. “What do you mean?”

“This art project on cannibalism.” I shrug, finally glancing at her. “Your art is always controversial, right? But why this? Why cannibalism?”

She chuckles, each note low and cutting, like there’s a joke that I’m not aware of, and I’m the punchline. The hairs on the back of my neck stand, and I push back in my seat.

I don’t leave though.

Control yourself, I think, and you’ll get what you want.

“As you may have gathered by my last exhibition, I’m always interested in the objectification of human beings. Cannibalism is obviously the next step,” she says. “Think about it: cannibalism is the actual consumption of a human as an object.”

That’s where people are too narrow-minded though.

“Cannibalism doesn’t have to be about eating people like a roast beef dinner,” I say. “It can be about the ultimate form of love or sexual exploration and trust. Being there for someone, even nutritionally providing for them.”

She takes a long sip of wine. The silence eats away at me, judging me for being such a needy little boy.

“I’m sure survival cannibalism exists,” she says. She dangles her glass by the neck. “Most cannibalism falls into survival or predatorial, but I’m not interested in the art of survival.”

My throat dries. She’s dismissing the providing love of cannibalism, and yet she’s teasing me too, playing with her words. Coaxing me in. She’s not interested in survival.

My brain imagines Mona with her limbs removed. Her torso roasted. The muscles pulled from her bones until she’s nothing, not even a cadaver. An ending where she’s my favorite meal.

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