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by Melissa Faith Talev, Fiction Editor

Is it cannibalism if the parts are given for love? For spite?
First, an outline about Chris:
You are both vegetarians.
He kisses you on the forehead.
In front of your building.
In front of his.
It is extremely platonic.
Both the giving and receiving.
He makes sure you eat.
He treats you like you are a child.
He is less than 2 years older than you.
He will not tolerate your smoking.
He smokes.
He thinks you don't know.
He looks like you.
He is a hibachi chef.
This may only be a rumor.
He is not Asian.
He throws knives around all day.
You worry about him chopping off his fingertips.
He is way, way too skinny.
He sucks.
He is a loser.
He is a liar.
He is a genius.
He is an excruciatingly terrible friend.

You haven't spoken to Chris in a year. God, five years? Five years. Chris was friends with all your friends, once. He is no longer friends with them just as he is no longer friends with you. There was no fight, no falling out, just an end. They, however, all have stories of running into him at a bar or a restaurant at some point, a concert, and hanging out for the night. Forgetting that Chris is a shit, and laughing like it's 1999. You've never bumped into him. You don't think about him very much, why would you? Chris erased himself from your life, and he did a fine job.

Today. Tonight. Now. Five years after erasure. 14 years after Erasure. You are on a date with your boyfriend. The man your mother hopes you will marry. She gets Martha Stewart Weddings in the mail; you sleep with other men. You are tired, and you let him be in control tonight. A mind full of grey keeps you from listening to the night's plans. Thus, you end up in front of a Benihana at 8 pm with a nagging feeling ofŠ what? Future indigestion most likely, these places serve way too much food, plate after plate. As if the patrons are starving, instead of American. Once through the door, you understand the feeling. It's no preindigestion, it is the sinking, scared feeling of a secret being brought to light. Being caught in a lie by your 3rd grade teacher. Almost choking when you're home alone. You are woozy, the snickering sounds of the knives slickey-slacking in slow agonizing motion. What is there to do? Your stomach is a churning pit of hell. You wonder if the small Japanese woman in front of you can see you sweating. She is looking at you with her head cocked to the side; she thinks you are pregnant and about to faint. Everything is rushing around you. Everything is moving so slowly. He will know you are alive. He will know you know he's alive. He has survived! How? Why? He won't kiss you on the forehead this time, or worse, he will. He will be skinny; he will be terrible. You will not look a thing alike. But, he will make sure you eat. It's his job now. It is not a rumor.

Your boyfriend grips your arm in a panic, offers to hail a cab. Your mind races--is it too late? Can you escape? You think senseless thoughts about auras and muscle memory. And it is too late. He has seen you. The knives are up in the air. They are flipping end over end over end over end over end over end. It's a trick. How can they take so long to fall? You're on candid camera. You are not on candid camera. The knives are down. Crash. Clanking on the sizzling metal, jumping like rice. Jumping with the rice. Jumping with a half-inch of shrimp that is not a shrimp. There is blood everywhere.

You rush forward. You grab a fork. You drop the fork and use your hands. You burn your hands. You break a tooth.

The next day you shit out a fingernail. It was a mistake. Chris is always a mistake.