fig and prosciutto #2
“What’s the most wicked thing you’ve ever done?” we ask.
“Ever?” He considers this for a spell. “Hard to say.”
“Because you’ve done so many terrible things?”
“No . . . It’s not that. I guess I’ve always wanted to believe I was a good person.”
“Why?”
“Doesn’t everybody? Deep down?”
“Not us.”
“If only I’d met you sooner . . .” He leans in, the distance between us dwindling.
Our lips meet. We close our eyes. We wish to be in the darkness when we taste him. Savor him. Every last bit. The sweetness.
The salt. What a meal this man makes.
“Where’s your line, Jordan? Your morality?”
“Still trying to find it,” he says between kisses.
“Will you cross it? With me?”
“What if I can’t?”
“Such wasted potential,” I say. “You could be a serial killer by now.”
Jordan pulls back. He is looking—staring—down at us. What is he looking for?
Me. He’s trying to find me.
“What’s wrong?”
“I’m sorry . . . This is . . . It’s just strange.”
“What?”
“It’s you, but . . . it’s not.”
“Who else am I?”
“You know what I mean . . . It’s not you.”
“But I’m right here.”
“Yeah, but on the outside . . . this part isn’t you.”
“I thought you’d like this. I picked her just for you.”
“See? That’s just it. This constant switching around. It’s too much.”
“What would you have us do?”
“I’m trying to figure that out.”
“Well, don’t dwell on it too long.”
“Do you even know what you want out of this relationship?” he asks us.
We can’t help but laugh. Just a bit. “I’m sorry . . . Did you just say relationship?”
“If this is going to work between—”
“Work?”
“—I feel like I need to trust you.”
Trust. The word feels contractual. The laws of man. The resolute expression on his face suggests he’s serious, but we can’t help
but sense his nervousness. We smell it. Fear.
“We should lay down some ground rules.”
“Rules,” we repeat, the word flat. It holds no flavor on our tongue. He invited us here . . . for this? To tell us what he wants? To give us an ultimatum?
It’s a trap. We feel cornered. Jordan lured us to this public space in hopes of binding us with his so-called rules. He wants to contain us. Cage us.
We will not be contained.
Here comes the itch.
No body-hopping, he requests. One body. One host. It proves too confusing for Jordan, passing through so many vessels. He needs a familiar
face. A voice he can recognize.
A body he can cling to. It puts Jordan at ease, returning to the same receptacle.
“Are you saying I can’t possess other people?”
“I’m serious,” he says. “We need boundaries.”
“Boundaries?”
“It’s just too confusing to keep dealing with different people all the time.”
He doesn’t understand what he’s asking of us. Doesn’t understand the risk. The toll. The pain possession inflicts. If we linger
within one host for too long, we lose ourselves.
“The longer I’m in one host’s body,” I explain, “I run the risk of getting stuck.”
“Is being stuck actually so bad?” he asks.
“When you can’t escape it is.” Imprisoned within flesh. A cage of skin and bone.
Is that what Jordan wants? To put us in a cage?
“Why didn’t you say anything before?” he asks.
Because I don’t want to frighten you. Because I’m afraid of what you might say. Because I’m afraid of what you might see.
See me. The real me. What’s hidden beneath.
“Because you never asked.”
“This is all pretty new to me . . . I’m trying to figure out what questions to even ask.”
What does Jordan want from us? Our skin? Or what I am on the inside? We’ve never had to ask these questions before. These . . . doubts. “Are you allowed to see other people?” we ask. “Is it just us who has to stick with this monogamistic possession?”
“. . . Seriously?”
“If I can only possess one person, you must promise the same.”
“Fine. I promise.”
“What else?”
“No hurting your host,” he says.
“Don’t damage the packaging. Got it. Next?”
“No lies.”
“Have we ever lied to you?”
“The second you feel cornered, you sidestep.”
He has no concept of commitment. Of eternity, endless tides sanding down your very soul, until there is nothing, nothing left,
worn away to the smoothest of stones, begging for mercy.
Burning now. Our skin is burning. I need out. Need to escape.
“You want to trust us?”
“Yes,” he says. “I just want some sort of agreement that says, This is who we are together.” A covenant. An agreement in the eyes of his god. He wishes to testify. With us.
What would God say about that? We could give him what he asks for. A gift of compliance. Let him beseech the heavens with this blasphemous bond. A sacrifice.
“You’re on a roll now,” we say. “Anything else you’d like to add?”
“Now that you mention it . . .”
“What? What else?”
“I want to know,” he starts. “Have you ever . . . been inside me?”
Just a taste. Dipping a toe. “No,” we lie. Thou shalt not lie . . .
“Don’t, okay? Please?”
“Is this another one of your rules?”
“Just, please . . . Don’t possess me. It’s weird to think you might be inside my head. Rummaging around my thoughts. I want
to give them to you . . . but that’s for me to offer.”
“So no peeking?”
“No peeking.”
“Have it your way,” we say, wondering if it’s a promise we can actually keep.
We are itching all over, burning in this skin. I feel famished for fresh flesh. If I stay for much longer, I might lose control.
I wish to swim through skin. I could already be on our third body by now, hopping from one host to the next. An endless cycle
of vessels. Never settling.
Why am I letting him do this to me?
“I want to talk to her,” Jordan says.
“. . . Who?”
“Your host.”