wake

I came home, gave you a cuddle that lasted a minute, then went straight to the kitchen. Two hours later, dinner is served.

I sit opposite you at the table. Other than losing the tie, blazer and top two buttons of my shirt I’ve not bothered changing. Between us is a second roast chicken and a formidable array of Sunday-roast vegetables, charred slightly in the oven and augmented with some strange choices. Mange-tout feature, and they have no business in a roast. I called it a Handley roast dinner, naming my family, and smiled with that wound-down look in my eye.

The first roast chicken has given up the ghost. I meticulously carved you pristine ovals of breast meat and offered you legs and wings. Gravy stood on the side if it took your fancy. Now a sizeable wodge of that veg and the flesh of that chicken sits sweetly beneath your ribs, sitting voluminous and warm in a stomach that speaks to itself in soft blurrrps and gurgles, a contented pet in your lap.

So of course we continue. I get to my feet and carve.

“So I was, obviously, with my family today.”

You smile encouragingly and swirl wine in your glass-half-full. You sip and patiently watch me try to articulate forces within that I do not understand. Hm, this seems to happen once a month. Do I get a period?

“It’s strange to be dumped back into that environment. It’s very… normal.

“For a moment I slipped back into my old… experience. As if none of this was real. You. I was sitting at the wake at my parents’ house feeling so warm and full of love. I’d do anything to protect them. I hated that they would dwindle over time. Die one by one and each time lessen that… wonderful light that always appears when enough of us are together. Hated it. Made me feel cold and empty.”

I stop mid-slice for a second as I think, my knife still buried in the chicken. It doesn’t look like hate on my face but horror. You sip your wine and lean forward. The subtle gesture seems to reboot me. I flash you a smile like an apology and thanks.

“Felt so lonely and cold. But then the feeling passed and I remembered you.

“It’s strange. I shouldn’t feel this way. Shouldn’t. But just like I could never stop you from taking me, I couldn’t think of a better end for all of us. If we’re going to be parted from one another, let us be together in— in you, y’know?”

I release the knife and cover my eyes with an exasperated hand. My lips curl in a huge, self-deprecating grin. “It’s dumb, but you’re basically my religion. My Heaven, at least. So I want to share you with those I love. It feels monstrous to say. But it feels right.”

In a quieter voice I continue, managing to resume my carving duties. “I know it will hurt. It has to. When you eat us we’re… food. You’ll break us down. Pain is natural.” Between knife and a fork I transfer slice after slice of chicken to your plate. Then scoops of veg: broccoli, carrot, parsnip, leek, all caramelised and charred; and suede and green beans and runner beans and the imposter mange-tout and those little baby sweetcorn things. They steam on your plate, dozens of little offerings waiting to experience a destruction so complete they will become part of you. You wield knife and fork and start the process.

“But everyone hurts at some point. Dying in you might be… hard. But when it’s done… We’re all yours. And nothing can take that away. Even if you… lose the fat you make of us. Even if you spend us. Our story became yours. tributaries to your river. Rivers to your ocean.”

Unwilling to intrude too much, you buffer a belch behind a fist. My eyes snap back to you, though. That burp brought me back to reality. “Being yours, part of your body, soaked up… It’s a Heaven I want everyone to experience.” I lean across the table with my own fork and bring a morsel of dark meat to your lips. We lock eyes as your teeth close around it. You sit back and the fork is empty. Closed lips seal it away from the world forever. You chew and swallow.