You're unsure of them at first because you have just met them, but then they strike up a conversation, with a smile, asking about you.
You've just sat down. It's been five minutes. The waiter hasn't shown up yet. Ten minutes.
You talk about your life goals, some of your odd hobbies, what your favorite food is. You try to ask about them, but they keep directing the conversation towards you, asking you more and more questions.
It's been twenty minutes. Apologizing, the waiter finally shows up. You order the chicken parmesan, extra sauce. Your date quietly whispers what they want to the waiter.
It's like they're trying to find out everything about you, even the thoughts you've pushed back to the dustiest corners of your mind.
And you're a little bit uncomfortable but you brush it off because no one has ever payed this much attention to you or has wanted to really get to know you. You feel happy.
Forty minutes. The food has not been brought out yet.
You're starting to feel your stomach grumble every few minutes. Wondering why it's taking so long for the food to arrive, you wave the waiter over and ask.
He just gives you a sly smile and shoots his eyes over to your date, then walks away. You look over to see them giving you the same smile.
Forty-two minutes. Getting nervous, you start to fidget. They just keep smiling as if they know something you don't. You're uncomfortable now.
You ask them if they know why the food hasn't arrived yet.They say that the food has been here the whole time.
They lunge at you, slicing into your sweet flesh with their teeth, watching the crimson liquid ooze out from your body.
Sixty minutes. No one is paying attention. They are still eating and having conversations with their loved ones, while the light in your eyes is slowly fading away.
Your screams of pain echo through the restaurant. The constant thought of 'Why?' plays like a broken record in your mind.
Your heart is pulled out. They devour it. Your intestines, livers and kidney are pulled out. They devour those too. They are now peeling the skin and flesh off of your broken bones.
Ninety-five minutes. A busboy comes out of a pair of double doors with a mop and bucket, ready to soak up the bloody mess your date created.
Your date finishes you off, sliding their tongue across their lips, indulging in the last few drops of your blood that aren't soaked into the carpeted flooring. While picking flesh out of their teeth with part of one of your snapped in half metacarpals, they hand an eight dollar tip to the busboy with a wink.
One hundred minutes. They go and sit at another table on the other side of the restaurant, ready to begin their next "date".
