/ Queen of the World
She was the queen of the world, but she didn't know it. The cosmos worshiped her quietly. And she thought that's how it was for everyone.
The Weekly Disturbance
A woman finally gets the attention of the man she loves, one piece of herself at a time.
He worked from home.
She was unemployed.
He sat all day at the computer.
She tended.
She loved him with a love that had never existed before.
He sat all day at the computer.
She cried over him.
She cried over them.
She cried over herself.
She wanted him.
She used to make him food.
Three meals a day.
Only when he ate did he respond to her.
Her food.
Only then did they talk.
Only then did she see that he loved her too.
But he sat all day at the computer.
"Maybe the body," she thought.
She took up a meticulous grooming routine.
Hair, soap, body cream, shampoo.
Something in him shifted.
She removed all the hair from her body.
Something in him shifted more.
She removed the dead skin from the soles of her feet.
A look.
She removed the dead skin from her hands.
A smile.
The knife hurt, the skin turned pink, but she kept removing and removing.
Nose, chin, groin.
Breasts.
A hint of interest.
But still.
All day at the computer.
Answering without looking up.
Only the screen's light moved in his eyes.
He fears love.
Fears love.
Not her.
With nowhere else to turn, a vague mystical thought.
A crude, primal thought of witchcraft.
She mixed a little of her skin into his food.
"I'll feed you," she thought.
"I'll be inside you.
You won't be able to escape."
The food tasted good to him.
For the first time, he complimented her.
She kept mixing her skin into his food.
More and more.
Suddenly he showed interest in her.
Really.
For a while.
For the first time, he stroked her without realizing it.
"Have you eaten yet?"
More.
More of herself to mix into his food: Fingernails.
Eyelashes.
Saliva.
"How are you feeling?"
He started taking breaks from work.
To be with her.
She understood: this was the truth.
Her appetite grew.
When she started mixing in blood too, his heart opened to her.
They made love.
He ate her blood.
She was part of him.
He wasn't afraid anymore.
His body recognized her.
She wanted more.
Slowly she added more.
More and more of her blood into his food.
Slowly their love rose.
He loved the sauce.
She grew weak.
And continued.
She cooked slowly, pale.
He ate slowly, flushed.
He stayed close.
She grew weaker.
And continued.
He stayed up with her.
Didn't want to sleep.
Helped her up from the chair.
He smelled her.
Thought: We.
More and more of her blood.
She died.
When he came back from the funeral he went to the fridge.
Grief-stricken.
Lost.
Opened the door.
A plastic container.
Leftovers from the last meal.
He finished the blood of the dead love.
With the final bite he felt weak.
Collapsed.
He died.
The container empty.
The computer cold.
She was the queen of the world, but she didn't know it. The cosmos worshiped her quietly. And she thought that's how it was for everyone.
He didn't leave the house until he'd finished drawing himself a face.
It took a while. Everything always took him a while.
First a base layer, too dark, so there'd be something to draw on at all.
Then eyebrows, thicker than the ones he used to have, so a gaze would have somewhere to sit.
The nose he gave up on today.
Last of all, he drew himself lips.
I'm a good friend.
And I have proof of it. Ultimate proof. It's like God himself told me I'm a good friend.
And how do I know? Because Mia Goldfarb chose me as a friend.
And Mia's choices are always right.
Always.
He works from home, she feeds him, and their love story becomes increasingly literal.