Frankie's new girlfriend is a total maneater. As in, she eats people.
Our summer house of five college seniors unanimously came to this decision after inviting her over for dinner yesterday. Frankie, oblivious, wrapped his arms around her while she popped the flesh out of oysters and slashed her asparagus to ribbons with her fork. She made such utterances as "it's nice to eat—I mean meet you," "what a delicious stew—I mean brew—I mean group of lovely roommates you have," and "you should come to my place for dinner. You'd be surprised by the main course."
Her place? A black-spired Victorian mansion across from our clapboard home, also inhabited by five college seniors. They only wear velvet, black lace, and chiffon, all weirdos who come into town once a week to buy thirty pounds of flour, six fresh butcher knives, and an ungodly amount of Old Bay.
Last week, we paid our most mysterious and alluring roommate, Frankie, $30 to ask one of the weirdos out so we'd learn about the odd purchases and strange home. The next day, he announced that Cupid's arrow shot him in the heart. Love at first sight! We said the arrow shot him in the brains.
So, we confronted Frankie about his definite cannibal girlfriend after dinner last night. He left and slammed the door behind him.
It's 6:00 pm the next day and he hasn't returned, leaving me and my best friend Bonnie knocking on their matte-black door with a pot of boiled crabs.
Bonnie scrunches sea water out of her ponytail. "Do you think it's a good idea, going behind enemy lines like this?"
The door creaks open. A young man with a pompadour and velvet red jacket smiles at us, revealing sharp teeth. "And what brings such lovely specimen over here?"
I mouth 'bad idea' at Bonnie and offer the man an awkward laugh. "We live with Frankie. His girlfriend, uh, Lucy, invited us for dinner. We thought we'd surprise y'all."
His eyes light up and he claps his hands. "Oh, you are so cute with that 'y'all.' I'm sure you've gorged yourself on excellent Southern cuisine from wherever you're from. Don't stand there; come in!"
Bonnie casts me a nervous glance, so I cradle the crab pot and take the first step into a dark foyer that smells distantly of garlic. The door slams shut behind us, and the man calls out over his shoulder.
"Another course has arrived!"
"H-he means the crabs, right?" I try, but I'm already mid-pivot toward the door.
"Fuck the crabs and fuck Frankie! I'm out of here!" Bonnie shouts.
The man catches her arm. I slam my cast-iron pot on his foot, and he screams out. Reinforcements rush in. Arms draped in dark lace push us to the ground. I can't see how many in the dark. I kick a woman in the chest. I smash my fist into a man's ribs, hear the crunch, and a sudden smell of blood fills the foyer. I glance over to see Bonnie's long nails caught on Lucy's cheekbone, and it's that second of distraction that seals my fate.
My head cracks to the side; white stars explode across my vision like sparks. It's only then that I feel the blunt pain tearing away at my jaw. K.O! Consciousness fades like an ocean mist, my last irrational thought: I hope they at least cook me right.
***
Bonnie looks like shit, with her skin cast a light blue. We both shiver and convulse in our swimsuits, just, you know, hanging around upside down in a walk-in freezer. Silver racks of suspicious wet boxes surround us, the air misty from the cold. We're fucked, and probably, currently, dying.
She clears her throat. "If they make one more stupid pun about eating us before they do it, I'm going to kill them."
"I mean, I'd kill them myself, but I'm a little tied up at the moment."
"Grace, you too. Another pun and I'm killing you too."
"I think this is what they call gallows humor."
She snorts. Her eyes glisten with upside-down tears.
The door flies open, ushering a gust of welcome warm air. We both beg for our lives in a gush of incoherent words, but Lucy silences us with one angry look. She wears Bonnie's nail marks on her face. Frankie trails her, a veiled look to his dark eyes. Inky hair drapes his forehead. I don't know what to think.
"My love," she says, "which morsel should we eat first?"
"We were wrong!" I cry, maybe delirious. "She's not a maneater; she's a woman-eater."
Now Frankie smiles, squeezing her waist. "Wrong again. She's not the woman-eater."
It's a sudden and violent movement, his teeth in her neck. She screams and drops to the ground, his pale face now covered in blood. Bonnie and I stare at each other in terror.
"I am."
***
Okay, yes. Between this and 'The Ravenous Tale,' eating people appears to be a new theme cropping up in my work, and I don't know how I feel about it. Actually, I do. Weird.
