She Carried His Leg

First, she cradled it like a child, then put it between her legs and galloped like a horse, next slung it over her shoulder like a rifle, and she stood at attention, the leg at the ready. The leg was more than she had intended to take. So greedy, she chastised. Until now, she had allowed herself only small bites—an ear, a finger, a bit of thigh. On days of admirable control, she would perhaps take only one knuckle or the tip of his toe or thumb. She was practicing restraint, the art of savoring, of chewing each bite 30 times, of feeling her teeth break down the veins and sinews and swirling the saliva around the flesh to make the salty, metallic mush. She knew she shouldn’t take too much too quickly. Already he was breaking down. Each time she opened her mouth, he looked away. She would catch him looking in the mirror, considering each new empty space. She wanted to make this last, to prolong the inevitable when there would be nothing left, nothing but the empty gulps of air between bones.