Hunger 

Robynne M. Graffam 

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, 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.