You're Just My Blood Type

I only watch her because I care. There she is, a small dot moving across the screen. Another sip. Another toke. The room swells with smoke. Spirals. I magnify the pub she’s entered, check the photos. Street view. Who’s she with? And how is it that she got over me so quick? Proof. It’s proof that she never cared. Proof that I was right. Unless, of course, these men are a rebound. Bars, a refuge. Beer, a distraction. Surely, I meant more to her than that. Bitch.

But God, the craving fucking hits and my gums throb, my canines ache. Small dot on the screen. Nora. Preciosa, guapa, bonita. The first month was sautéed – quick, golden, delicious. And every instant felt glazed with honey. She allowed me to sink my teeth into her. She allowed me to suck her dry. Almost. There she sat one breakfast, swinging, dizzy, disoriented, on a kitchen stool. I didn’t even bother to catch her – I was satiated, teeth stained with her blood, fangs retracting. Her heart, a plum. Purple-red inside. Her blood, so thick. Full-bodied. I slurped her up. The void – it slurps up anything that resembles love.

I only watch her because I care, or so I tell myself. I can’t be sure, though. Can anybody? And does she so readily give herself to everyone? I love you, she said, and I pressed my fangs against her tender, juicy flesh. And I would have drained her all at once if it didn’t mean forever losing that saccharine supply. I would have juiced and bottled her soul, her smile, her submission. I would have forever kept her in a flask in my pocket. She was syrup. Nothing like it since.

She’s on the move again, my little blue dot. I access her camera and mic, see her double chin, her drunken eyelids drooping. Then a man’s black dress shoes. Cement. Her voice: aléjate de mí. Feisty. Hoarse with alcohol. Sounds like emphysema. It’s not the baby voice she used with me. What a handsome boy. Look at those eyelashes! Sometimes, I think I crave more than just her blood. Delusional, I know. I’m incapable of love. It’s just my stomach grumbling again.

No more men’s shoes. Good. Good for him, otherwise… Just Nora’s double chin again, her long eyelashes fluttering stupidly like those disoriented butterflies Mum released from Dad’s greenhouse that one time. Why did they slam themselves against walls? I suppose “slam” isn’t the word – they were feather-light, leaves, floating. They were winged drunkards, intoxicated. Purple. Yellow. Green. Brown. Like bruises. Bruised butterflies.

Anyway, Nora. Airy-fairy. A soufflé. Her stupid gap-toothed smile, her stupid wide-eyed gaze, her spectacled condescension and shaking of the head. Presumptuous. I can see it all again, I recall her every expression, as I catch glimpses of her face flashing across the screen. Not good enough. A little blurry. I ordered the Dell UltraSharp UP32-something last week, but it’s yet to arrive, so I’ve missed the yellow on her front teeth, the black onset of a cavity, and I’ve missed the sparkle in her eyes. The latter I drained along with her blood, but one afternoon it reappeared again, and I could’ve sworn her eyes were green. Not hazel, not honey, but a springtime green like grass shoots, and she saw me anew that day. Fresh perspective. I don’t think she liked what she saw – something visibly curdled inside her.

I hate her – I hate her as she enters another bar. So accessible. Her Merlot blood—black cherries—was never reserved for me, and it’s warm and pulsing beneath a hundred foreign hands. And ugly – sometimes, often, she was ugly. The guilt. The guilt of seeing her as supply, a fruit. Rotten, sometimes. Other times, renewed. Ripe and plump again. I recently saw her on Tinder. A little gross, admittedly. Not quite photogenic. Never was. Another sip. Another toke. Spirals. Spirals of smoke. My little blue dot slips into another bar, but her camera’s covered. In her back pocket again? Her purse? Pija. She always thought she was better than everyone. Brand names. Big words. Her French, better than mine.

But other times, mostly after my drinking, she was small. A kitten curled up into a crescent moon in the corner of my bed. And that one time when I hadn’t stopped and her head lolled, and her eyes glazed over, I felt all my blood freeze up. Scared, I was. Frozen. Until the sweet fluttering of her lashes returned. Those sleepy eyes watching me. Why didn’t you tell me to stop? I asked. She shook her head. Subtle smile. I thought I might have loved her then. And by God, my gums throb, but so too does something in my chest and in my throat.

I close her camera and mic – her phone’s probably burning with my presence. I click open a folder on my desktop. And another. And another. Nora. Video after video. One, I click open. My favourite. There we are, the two of us. Her little voice in my headphones, warm and cosy. She’s garnished with a little cherry-red thong. Lace. Mouthwatering. Glint of my teeth on her neck. Close-up of the rosy blush leaving her cheeks, the red her lips. Skin translucent like rice paper. Veins a baby blue. Eyes, empty.

My gums pulse, and my fangs come through. Salivating again. Bloodshot eyes I have. Headache. I sink my fangs into my own wrist but it’s not the same. I mutter her name. Savour it. Her taste sloshes around in my memory.

And on the screen, I wipe my lips, my chin. Satiated. I pull her into my arms and rock her like a child, caress her hair. Colour returns to her face, to the apples of her cheeks. Lush and juicy. Biteable. She wraps her arms around my waist. I love you, she whispers. And I say it back, though I recall the words in my mouth. Rubbery. Dry. Tough like overcooked steak.

I close the video. Hit back on Nora. Open Carmen. More videos. One, I click open.