Page 6 of Morsel

I close the door behind me. The noise from the gallery dulls into a murmur. Water drips. A clawfoot tub, filled almost to the top, is situated in the corner of the room, next to the toilet. A woman’s neck arches out of the water, her hair pulled into a messy bun on top of her head.

“Sorry,” I murmur. “I was looking for the bathroom.”

She tilts her head toward the toilet. “Help yourself.”

I raise a brow. Is she serious? It’s dark, and my eyes haven’t adjusted yet; I can’t see her face. I’m not sure if she’s Mona.

This woman told me to “help yourself,” so why shouldn’t I take a leak?

I unzip my pants as I skim her. Closer now, I can see that her lips are painted the color of a purple cherry.

I face the toilet. I don’t want to stare too much. I piss, and my stream is loud, drowning out the dripping water and the gallery’s white noise.

“The door said occupied,” she says.

I shake my dick until the piss drips are gone. “I knocked. You didn’t answer.”

“But I told you to meet me here, didn’t I?”

My mouth drops open. Under the water, the shadow of her legs part, and I lick my lips. The hot water steams, and it reminds me of a hearty stew. Her legs are the main protein, a meal mouth-watering and rich.

“It’s you,” I say.

Fire twinkles in her round pupils, a predator waiting inside of a cave. Reading me. Drawing me in. Tempting me into her darkness. The hairs stand on the back of my neck, and I gulp down extra saliva. It’s like she’s hunting me.

My jaw flexes. No. I’m the predator here.

Even if she thinks she’s capturing me, I don’t want to stop her. I want to see what happens. I want to see how this ends.

Mona pulls herself up, her small breasts exposed above the water as she reaches over the tub. Water sloshes over the side and splashes on my boots. I’m hypnotized by her every move, like a lion tracing the edge of its cage. She’s just a woman, I remind myself. A woman who may casually like the idea of being eaten. She may be a scam. She may want nothing to do with you.

She grabs a bottle of wine off of the floor. I hadn’t noticed it before. She sinks back into the water and lifts the bottle. The cork is halfway out of the neck.

“Drink with me,” she says.

I perch on the edge of the tub. My pants soak up some water.

“No wine glasses?” I ask.

She pulls the cork with her teeth, spits it out over the edge of the tub, then drinks straight from the bottle. A subtle moan drifts from her lips.

She hands the bottle to me. Restless energy prickles over my skin. I tell myself it’s like drinking blood—her blood—to form a pact.

No. It’s just wine, I think. Just wine. There’s nothing wrong with drinking wine.

I bring the bottle to my lips. The spicy liquid runs over my tongue, and I pretend it’s her blood. Blood tastes metallic—like pennies—but with her, I’d imagine there’d be more spice. Perhaps black pepper and cinnamon.

The crevices around her mouth deepen in a smile. I hand her back the bottle, and she dangles it by the neck, a pendulum swinging closer to the pit.

“Why are you here?” she asks.

My heart beats in my chest, a drum drowning everything else out. It’s a real conversation. We aren’t anonymous strangers on the internet with weird needs and fetishes anymore; we’re two actual people right now.

This question may be a trap.

Warning bells blare in my mind. There could be a recording device under the toilet. A hidden camera waiting to catch me in the act. For all I know, there is a plain-clothed officer waiting right outside of the bathroom to arrest me for even thinking about eating her.

Okay. Maybe that’s far-fetched, but she could be planning to use my words and actions against me, some sort of blackmail to help her pay for her art materials. Even if she is rich, people are weird. I couldn’t put it past her.

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