Little Bites by Jake K. Istuk

She’s never home when I want her to be, and when she is, sometimes I wish she’d just go. Tonight there’s a cat on our couch. It’s purring under the pressure of her palm. She’s left the window open, and the very edge of a drizzle is falling through. Tiny little droplets are falling through the awnings and onto the windowsill. Portents of water damage and mold.

“Lock the door. How many times do I have to say it?” I’m exhausted, she can be frustrating, and I don’t care enough to treat her any better today.

There’s also a smell. An empty takeaway container is sitting on the counter, unwashed. It’s probably been there for hours. I go straight to the bedroom to swap uniforms. I can hear her talking, mumbling, to the cat. Then a thump, and then a yowl.

When I come back the cat is gone. There’s a car alarm wailing outside.

“Come here,” she says, hands grabbing at the air, mock-beckoning me. She takes my hand, massages it within hers, running her fingers along the tops of mine.

“You’re so pretty,” she says.

She takes a hold of my ring finger and guides it into her mouth. It’s cold, and her teeth graze me. I pull my finger back. I always do it, involuntarily, survival instinct I suppose, but it doesn’t budge. Her tongue is wrapped around it, gripping it in place.

There’s a click from her jaw and a crunch from her mouth. Serrated teeth are crushing and severing my skin and bone. I can feel her sucking up the juices. Her eyes are fluttering. There’s no pain, just cold.

She removes my finger from her jaw for me with her own shaking hands. There are yellow streaks and bits of something on her teeth. Physically my finger looks just fine, but something’s gone. She’s consumed more of me. That’s the fourth finger in as many weeks and I have no idea when it will stop, or if it will stop with my fingers. But it’s exhilarating, and it can be a pleasure to see her so often. There’s a homeliness in our new routine.

She’s left, gone to the bedroom while I was lost in thought. I can hear her talking on the phone. I think it might be a man’s voice on the other end.

I stretch and tense my hand and fingers. It’s absurd, and by now a little funny, that no one seems to notice my deformities, but I’m always careful to wear gloves just the same.

“I’m heading back out.” She turns down the volume on her phone and the man’s voice fades out to nothing, but she doesn’t reply. I shut the window on my way out.

Once I’ve closed the door behind me I linger in the hallway. I hear her come back out of the bedroom and open the window.

I’m afraid that she’ll devour all of me, or that I’ll say the wrong thing or think the wrong thoughts, and that she’ll stop.

Jake K. Istuk

Image: A finger with spots of very red blood. From pixabay.com