‘I’m falling apart,’ he joked, rubbing his throbbing left wrist.
She didn’t laugh. She didn’t even look up from the television that blared out like a wall between them.
He sloped off to bed and slept, despite the noise from the room below and the jolts of pain shooting down his left arm.
She went to the pantry and returned with the gingerbread man and bit down.
He awoke screaming. His left hand was missing, like it had never existed in the first place. The skin had perfectly sealed the stub of his arm.
Her tongue licked at the gingerbread crotch.
He produced an exuberant erection.
She continued.
He cried for his missing left hand, but couldn’t resist reaching down to touch himself with his right.
She bit the gingerbread man’s right hand clean off.
He thrashed and shrieked and shouted as his right hand disappeared before his very eyes.
She yanked up the volume on the television.
He wept like a deserted baby.
Her teeth chipped off the icing mouth.
He couldn’t scream or shout any more.
She ate it all up until it was just a head with confectionary eyes.
He took up significantly less space in the bed.
She picked the eyes off, one by one.
He was left in the dark.
She finished him off with a crunch.
Silence.
She walked upstairs.
He wasn’t there.
She brushed the gingerbread crumbs off the sheets.
He had fallen apart.
She finally laughed.
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