Tip-toeing up the tenebrous spiral staircase of her old apartment building, Sandy slips into her den. There is not a living soul in her apartment but she makes sure to do a careful inspection of the space. Everything seems to be in place and ready for her.
Sandy had spent the afternoon with a young gentleman. He was in his late twenties, blonde, mid-sized and chunky– but not fat– just how she likes them. There was something about corpulence that did not agree with her palette for meat and men.
He is perfect. Unfortunately for Sandy, she had met him just this afternoon. That is hardly enough time to poach him, as she does with all her men. Her mother had coached her well. It was simply imperative to understand the psychology of a man before roping him in and rendering him spent. Credence is key. And so, Sandy’s prowling entails movie dates, family dinners and weekend getaways– and her favorite, the final date. Now, she neatly slices her fingers through her supple hair, sectioning two halves. These bundles are tied tight. Looking into her bathroom mirror, she is reminded of her childhood– little Sandy Paul from Oxwin who was made to wear two taut ponytails every day. Mrs. Paul thought it made her look clean and kempt. That is how she felt now. Dinner time. But alas, there is nothing fresh. Last week’s catch will have to do. She marches straight to the fridge: she is on a mission. Inside, waiting for her are three cramped bowls. Will it be the braised shanks she cooked low and slow, the pate she spent hours perfecting or her usual– the drumstick? Drumstick sounds good, but she confronts the dish visibly vexed. Her insatiable appetite seems to crave on the final date, where she has most relish tasting the final desperate, sharp shrieks of quaking male corpses. Sandy takes a cold bite of Max’s thigh, playing around with him in her mouth. Gorbing away the remains, her meal still feels incomplete. But how, how could she move up her final date on Friday to tonight? It would ruin everything, she hears her mother chant to her. She digs her nails into the last bits of Max lodged between her molars, pulls it out and peers at it airily. It has to be done, she has to disturb her pattern:a method she has abided by all her life. Was this a betrayal? After all, she spent the afternoon committed to Friday’s pathetic humor, nodded sweetly to his boastful prattle and most importantly– did not stab him right then and there. She sets her rumpled mane free and darts for the front door.
Tara Rao is a contributor at ALMA Magazine.
