Late Dinner

“I hope you don’t mind a late dinner! Well, actually,” I kept my eyes trained on the stovetop as I spoke, trying to suppress a humored smile, “You can’t blame me for that since it took me forever to get you back upstairs.”

It was true–it took up my whole day following this damn man around the city before he settled on a seedy bar to waste his evening in. Lucky for me, I went unnoticed to him. As usual. It should have been more frustrating, I suppose, but he made it so easy to spike his drink I couldn’t complain. The hard part had been dragging him back to the apartment. He didn’t put up a fight, but it’s difficult when you have to lug a full grown man pressing his body weight into you up a flight of stairs. But once I had him settled in his seat at the table, things couldn’t have gone smoother. Of course, things would have been simpler from the start if he had just texted me his location or, even crazier, decided to come home for once. Life with him hasn’t been so easy recently.

Once inside, he was acting sweet and nonsensical, slurring his favorite pet names for me. I’d shushed him and helped raise a glass of water to his lips. The crushed sedatives, and morphine mixed in was needed to get him through the next part quietly. I refused to have any noise complaints from neighbours. The sock gag I personally felt was a nice touch too. I’d given his body a couple minutes to truly drink in the cocktail of drugs before starting the real work. With zip ties on both wrists and duct tape around the torso for good measure, I’d wrapped the rope tight around his upper calf. I’d already set up flat trash bags and blankets beneath his chair to catch the blood and had my best chef’s knife sharpened for clean cuts. I’d traced my finger down his calf in an attempt to map out the perfect serving portion, but gave up quickly. I’d decided it was best to take the whole thing. This was a dinner for the both of us, after all! And I was right, the morphine was definitely needed. He was groaning and lolling his head side to side. He was putting up a losing fight, but he was so deliciously docile it made my chest ache almost lovingly.

The cut was clean and swift. He never had much meat on him to begin with, which certainly helped. I sliced to the bone, from top to bottom, stopping above the back of the heel. Once I had my steak freed, I wrapped what was left of his leg in another towel and duct taped that too. It didn’t look pretty, but it didn’t need to. I felt confident, proud even. So proud that I poured myself a heavy glass of red wine and got to work in the kitchen, which is where I began striking up my one-sided conversation.

“You know, I used to love cooking before you made it into a chore for me,” I kept throwing words over my shoulder like he was listening. What can I say? Wine works its magic to loosen up my tongue!

“I used to love a lot of things before you ruined them,” I scowled down at the meat searing in my nonstick pan, the nice one I bought for myself years ago as a housewarming present. Never had a chance to use it for myself until now. I’d rubbed in all the needed salt and garlic from my pantry and fervently basted the meal in melted butter.

“I guess you loved a lot of things too,” I carefully flipped the filet with tongs to sear the edges. I hadn’t expected the words to come out so soft. So resigned sounding. But I have to constantly remind myself that it’s ok, I’m allowed to still feel hurt over it. We’ve been together for three years and for one of those years he’d been sleeping with some barely legal girl he met online. Got her pregnant and everything. Except he wasn’t thrilled to see that positive test and just had to beat her into a miscarriage. Poor girl was in the hospital for days and refused to tell the staff what really happened, so the police never got involved. I only found out about her when I saw the hospital's calls lighting up his phone a few weeks ago. I’m not proud that I went through his phone, but at that point, I felt I had too.

I paid her a visit at the hospital on her last day there. Turns out, she had no idea about me, and the story started falling into place as we spoke. The late work nights, hang-outs with friends he didn’t have, the “space” he needed from me when I asked him to clean his own dishes. We both cried and grew a connection in that hospital room. She even gave me her phone number, but warned that I might not hear from her for a while. After everything he put her through, she’d decided to move back in with her parents across the country.

“He treated us both like meat,” she’d whispered to me that day, “Meat.”

I couldn’t have agreed more with her. It was that very evening, laying restless in bed, that I made up my mind: if women are just slabs of usable meat to him, then I’d return the favor in kind. I decided to play the long game with him, as he’d done with me; I pretended I saw nothing on his phone. I let him kiss my cheek when he left for the gym and eased up on asking him to do basic household chores. It took a month to work up the courage and go through with it, but I finally did tonight.

I allowed the steak time to rest on the cutting board once it was finished. I didn’t realise just how much of my wine I’d drained while reminiscing. Oh well. Might as well pour another healthy glass and keep going. It was simply one of those nights. And lucky for me, he hadn’t bled out quite yet–I could hear him sobbing from the dining room. I suppose the sedatives are starting to wear off a bit. I checked the clock on the microwave. 4:12 a.m.. Later than expected, but it doesn’t matter. I did warn him dinner was going to be a late one! I quickly reheated the creamy mashed potatoes and pan seared asparagus I’d made earlier in the day and let the smells conduct a symphony in my nose.

Slicing through the cooked meat was like cutting warm butter. I prepared a small plate for him and a hearty portion for myself, of course. I danced my tipsy self and the plates to the table and set his portion down first. I parked myself at the far end of the table, directly across from him. He was breathing heavily. The drugs had definitely worn off with how focused he looked. His eyes were the only thing to show emotion; a heavy fear and disbelief lingered in them and I felt nothing but pleasure at the sight.

“Well, now,” I was slow with my words, “I made you dinner. Like you always told me I had to. Aren’t you going to eat it? It’s rude to refuse.” I crinkled my nose, childishly delighted. Must be the wine talking! I had no real plans to take off his gag and let him eat. Not that I expected him to partake in autocannibalism, but you never know. He’d either have to watch me eat or stare down at his own leg on the plate. He opted for squeezing his eyes shut and continuing to sob. I don’t mind. Dinner and a show.

I savored my meal and went back for seconds of everything. And somewhere in the hour that crept by, his sobs slowed and the color finally drained from his face as his blood loss caught up to him. It had been one hell of a night, and by the time I’d finally faced a window I saw that the sun was starting to make an appearance. I always loved daybreak. It meant a fresh start, every single day. I took my full belly and empty wine bottle to my tiny patio to watch the sun rise. I closed my eyes and let the sun soak into my body. I could feel the warmth wash away the blood staining my hands from that night's activities, giving me a new lease on life. In the distance, I could hear police sirens swarm down distant streets before fading and felt satisfied that these ones weren’t meant for me just yet.