by J. Spinazzola
She did this thing with her hands, some potatoes, and a sharp knife: shaved them down smooth like a woman’s knee. Peel might be the proper word. The skin curled over and fell.
I watched from a window above her sink. How she didn’t detect my presence, I don’t know. She prepared the dish, her back to me, at what they call an island. Where I’m from her senses would have been stronger, but then, she wouldn’t have tasted as good. And it’s a crime to eat one of our own.
The wrist of a woman from Isolda could never compare with hers, slender and delectable, our joints and muscles having evolved to crack bone. A quick twist of our wrists and the densest bone snaps like a twig.
Through the space at the ridge of the woman’s tank top, through her skin, thin like peel, my gaze bored straight onto the potatoes. I would have spared her for doing such beautiful things with root vegetables if not for everything in between. The way her heart pumped and the blood traveled.
I’d covered a long distance.
She boiled the potatoes in a pot. Then she mixed them in a bowl with cream and butter, a touch of salt. When she finished, I broke through the window, tackled her to the floor, shook free her freckles, and did what nature commanded. I left nothing for evidence, her freckles like pepper, but a broken window and an empty bowl.