Living with a Monster

“I’m a monster,” Wilhemina says, standing in the glare of the kitchen lights. She has claws that resemble small paring knives and wings that surround her like a luxuriant fur coat. She may be a monster, but she is very beautiful, her face hard like a mirror, her eyelashes long and lush, and her dark hair falling to her knees. “It is possible,” I reply, “that everyone is a monster.” She raises her claw and slashes the air. “Not everyone rips apart their lovers,” she says. “Not everyone eats them.” “I’m still here,” I counter. “You haven’t devoured me.” She smiles and touches my cheek with her claw lovingly, though she draws a little blood. “It’s only a small cut,” I say. I wash my cheek with warm soapy water, blot it dry with a paper towel and then I press a cotton pad against the cut. “It’s dangerous living with me,” she says. “I’ll take my chances,” I answer. “You seem very sure of yourself,” she says. “Perhaps you are a monster.” She searches my face, considering this possibility. “But you don’t look like one.” She brushes past me to open the refrigerator door. Peering inside, she is not happy with what she sees. “What’s for dinner?” I ask. “You,” she answers and shuts the refrigerator, her face radiantly pale, ravenous.