When I regained consciousness, the globe was inches from my face. I squinted into the paper ocean. The lines, where man attempts to organize the wild seas into handsome squares, wavered and made me seasick. North America was the victim of a dent; it looked as if an asteroid had collided into its flanks, giving it the forced curve of a corseted lady.
My heart had migrated to my head, and every thump gave me pain. When I finally moved, something rolled off my chest and struck the floor with an ear-splitting clink. It was the bottle of white cooking wine with a note inside; it reminded me of a bottle one casts into the sea in desperation. I shook the bottle every which way, but the paper stuck to the side and I was forced to read it through the green glass: “You’r gonna pay bitch.”
The daylight shone in through the window and left a blank visiting-card on the floor. With my bare toes, I expected to rake up a ball of dust and hairs, when I started at a clammy texture. I advanced to the thing, my nose practically upon it. It was the shape of a horseshoe, though smaller, and its edges had tooth marks.
I sprang up and threw it in a pot. I couldn’t wait for the hob to get hot. The curry rose like oriental incense, a yellow smoke teasing me, intoxicating me. As expected, the hardened cream-cheese slid from side to side, softening, liquefying until it reached a state of erupting bubbles. I scraped and scraped the bottom of the pot with a spoon. I couldn’t believe it. There was no meat, no skin in there, nothing!
I paced back and forth, cursed. I put my hand in the garbage disposal. Not even a last string I could chew to get the taste of the roast it had been in contact with. I stumbled around and cursed more. Pulled my hair. Lowered my own finger into the pot and burnt my fingerprint. I sucked my fingertip, reflecting how my own taste differed only minutely from another’s.
I set the pot on the floor and attempted to lower my buttocks inside. The pot’s edge branded a circle around them. It helped not to insist, I would never get inside. The hob was a glowing red plate. How tempting it would be for me to sit upon it, to smell the aroma of my own cooking meats, to feel them snap and sizzle, to watch the cloud of gases that would rise from them … Yes, yes, yes, I would taste a small piece of myself …
I rushed out of the apartment, for the occasion was a grand one, and I wished for some uncommon seasoning. I kicked aside every newspaper, flip-flop, and beach-ball that got in my way.
“Where ya think yer goin’ in such a hurry?” The voice I heard was friendly.
A woman in late middle-age was sitting on a weathered sack of charcoal, taking in the sun. Her hair was three sorts of blonde, and if this weren’t enough variety, her roots were grey. She had on a grass-stained pair of trainers, a tight pair of jeans, a T-shirt and, from what I could see (and anyone else, quite easily) no bra. Her smile was empty, a rag-doll smile with black button eyes.
I assumed she was one of my neighbours and replied, “Just some shopping, Ma’am. Salt and pepper are fine things, but one does need variety in life.”
Her smile transformed into a contortion of malice. “You bit my man.”
I could not apologize before I knew whom she was talking about. “Which one?” I asked, and not in the least insolently.
“You bite often?” she sneered and came at me with clenched fists. Like the neglected fruit of an overgrown garden, her breasts sagged under their own weight. Although they could feed a famished army, the man to whom she was referring had apparently not bothered to take a bite for many a year.
“My past samples do not concern you unless you have consumed your partner since? I did not think so. Goodbye.” I did not wish to dismiss her rudely, but her face answered my questions quicker than her speech did, and besides, I had my own cuisine to worry about.
“So you eat every dick you come across?”
“If you enjoy the same flesh over a prolonged period, I congratulate you. As far as I’m concerned, no piece has yet addicted me.”
She blocked my path.
“Now if you shall excuse me.” I pushed past her, but didn’t get very far.
“You’re not going anywhere,” she grabbed me, “You bit my husband’s ass bad!”
She was breathing heavily; a hiccup jarred her chest and I detected a trace of pork and beer.
“I do not wish to upset you, Madame, but your husband was given the gift of free will from Our Lord above, he consented willingly, I promise you, you shall find no signs of chains or thrashing if you examine him more thoroughly. He should cut the links off himself if serving as a woman’s meal, other than his lawfully wedded wife’s, tempts him so much.”
“He told me all ’bout how it happened, you prick-tease, you was jerkin’ off a carrot in his face, you was playin’ with a cherry like it was y’r tit, you were puttin’ yer mouth on all kinds o’fruits an’ lickin’ ’em nasty, toyin’ with every obscenity you could get yer dirty fingers on!”
As she pulled my hair, I stepped around in an ungainly little dance. “I beg your pardon?!”
“Whadda ya think, yeah gotta go to university ta understand? You all think yer so high an’ mighty, yer all ajecated an’ smart, well lemme tell yeah, yer more a slut than I ever put my eyes on!”
“Let no man judge you in eating, Colossians, 2–16.”
“Don’t you play no holy mouth with me, ya nasty cunt!”
“One [man] has faith to eat everything, but the [man] who is weak eats vegetables. Let the one eating not look down on the one not eating, and let the one not eating not judge the one eating, Romans 14:2, 14:3.”
“Shut yer mouth, you stinkin’ sperm bag!” She gave my head another more forceful tug backwards; unfortunately, she was pulling the silver chain of my crucifix as well as my hair. “Tell me how it all happened, I’m curious t’hear yer vursion. Tell me why ya picked ’im? You knew he had a big one, ya could smell it a mile away, couldn’t ya? Was that yer criterion? You teased him ’til you was certain? You was just starin’ at it in the mirror, dying t’have it, wasn’t ya?”
“If truly you are intent on learning the particularities, Madame, since I was a child, I never was one to clear my plate, so I assure you, I couldn’t care less how big the portion is.”
I never saw a face so sceptical when hearing the truth spoken. She looked down at my hair dress, crinkled her nose in disgust, and pulled my hair mercilessly. I was certain the silver chain was going to cut my throat, when it all of a sudden broke, and the tiny Jesus fell into the cleavage of my breasts.
“If you’ll forgive me, Madame, I left something on the stove … and I really must be going …”
Grass seeds had been planted around the building, but the grass had not yet grown; normally we weren’t allowed to be standing where we were. I looked down and saw my silver chain, long and fine, a shiny scar across the earth, a tiny food chain, a food chain Jesus was an integral part of.
“Don’t give me no fuckin’ cop-out! I asked you a question an’ I wanna answer now!”
“Would you terribly mind restating it more specifically?”
“Why in hell did ya choose my husband?!”
“I assure you, I did not choose him. I did not even sample him. There is all of him still available for you.”
“You think he was good ta play with, an’ now ya throw him back like scraps! Like a bone ta an ol’ dog!”
“Scraps? I didn’t even get a mouthful! If he came home stripped, it wasn’t me!”
It was not easy for me to concentrate on what she was saying; however, I did pick up a few of her claims: her husband was to be vaccinated for rabies because of me, I was financially responsible, and was not to escape into thin air. At this point, I fell to the ground for her hold on my throat was depriving me not only of words, but of oxygen. She withdrew my wallet from my red vinyl handbag and extracted my student identification card from it. Something about it quelled her instantaneously. I noticed her thumb touching her fingertips until she was convinced of a number. She glimpsed at the fifty dollars I intended to spend, but did not separate me from it.
“Delinquent,” she kicked me before crossing the street as an old man peddled by, flag high on his three-wheeler like a proud tail.