She loves him in pieces, in separate parts. A sliver of this, a morsel of that. He is tasty and delicious and she savors him bit by bit by bit. There could always be enough to go around, maybe. If she is careful. If she only sups a little at a time, just enough to whet her taste. If she keeps her hunger sharp enough to appreciate, but never to devour whole. She keeps a spare collarbone in her back pocket. She warms her hands on it, nibbles it delicately with sharp teeth. When the desire becomes too strong, she puts it away again. Anything else would be untoward. Anything else would be far too terrifying.
He doesn’t nibble, or take dainty sips, or deny himself. Anything. He takes mouthfuls of bone, of meat, of soul. When you’re starving, it’s difficult to hold back. When the gas tank or stomach or heart is empty, nipping away at a brandy snifter is ineffectual. Better to gulp great big lungfuls before it’s gone. Take the loss. Take the teasing. Take it before it’s rescinded, or before he grows tired of the game, or before they both wake up and realize that this isn’t reality.
“It isn’t ideal,” she murmurs, mouthing the underside of his jaw. Just enough for a taste. Just enough to keep the bloodlust at bay.
“It isn’t ideal,” he agrees, and when he pulls away, she’s missing her right shoulder, most of her ribs.
This story is broken, and they both know it. But it is their story. It is still a story of love.
∼ Mercedes M. Yardley
© Copyright Mercedes M. Yardley. All Rights Reserved.