Hunger

Abstract

Hunger Robynne Graffam (bio) Click for larger view View full resolution Photo by Jules Morgan [End Page 108] She did not want to eat him. Not really. It was expected; she knew that, had always known it. But it surprised her to discover she’d rather not. A dilemma. Caught in that ineffable struggle, she avoided the issue as best she could, but the effort was draining, [End Page 109] and occasionally she found herself pulling a blade of grass from the lawn and biting down on it, just to taste the bitter spike of chlorophyll on her tongue. She liked him. This was the trouble. She hadn’t intended to, but there it was. She’d chosen him for his blandness, which she’d assumed would make things easier. He was stolid, unremarkable, dull even. Hair of indeterminate brown, eyes smallish and watery with allergies. An accountant, obviously. They went on tepid dates—the movies or dinners of pasta and dusty chianti. At the end of the evening, he held her hand in damp fingers and she let him kiss her good night, kissing back just enough to hint at what might be possible behind closed doors, a warm pink moment of affection that went no further yet planted the seed of desire firmly enough in the arid soil of his imagination. But he surprised her. Once they were engaged, he brought her small presents, delightful and unexpected. A bunch of poppies, persimmon- orange, black rings winking in the sunlight like naughty children. A scarf of tissue-thin silk, painted with delicate vines of morning glory. A swallowtail butterfly, golden-winged, that he’d caught himself in a net and released in her kitchen to flutter dazedly in search of a window. (She watched it with pleasure, snatching it up and eating it discreetly while he went to the bathroom.) And he discovered how to touch her, lightly at the waist, occasionally eliciting an almost girlish laugh she hardly recognized as her own. She hadn’t expected to enjoy him touching her and knew it would only complicate matters later. Still, she could not help smiling at his breathy kisses on her neck, his fingers resting gently on the small of her back. She did her best not to think about what they would taste like. Their wedding was a small affair. He had parents, white-haired and frail, just shy of elderly. Two unremarkable siblings, a friend from high school who stood with him as best man. She had only her mother. Slender and stern, dressed in a pearlescent gray sheath with a pillbox hat, she watched from the edge of the room, her dark, unblinking eyes betraying no emotion whatsoever. The bride did not have anyone to “give her away” (loathsome expression) and so walked down the aisle alone, which suited her. She’d never known her father, of course, and therefore did not miss him. She had wondered about him occasionally, if he was kind or strong or intelligent. Once, on an evening when she and her mother sat on the back porch watching the dusk swallow the trees like a rolling blanket of fog, she’d asked about him, about what he was like. Her mother paused a moment and said simply, “Tough.” [End Page 110] On their wedding night, she stacked extra towels by the bed, slipped the small knife into her pillowcase as her mother had instructed. She assumed this was not the marriage-bed conversation most girls had with their mothers, but that was no concern of hers. Every relationship, she reminded herself, was unique. But again, he surprised her. Emerging from the bathroom in a wine-colored satin robe, he gave a rakish grin that stirred a quick and visceral curiosity which left her involuntarily flexing her fingers. He slipped his hand behind her, pulling her to him, a vitality in his eye she was sure she’d never seen before. He kissed her with an eagerness that was equally pleasant and troubling, but she allowed herself to be led to the bed and sank down into the pillows, almost blushing as his hand found its way to the cleft...