Machination

There you sat at table seven, smiling at the beams of sun that stippled through the water-stained window. Your vibrant delicacy of blond strands that rested over your left shoulder danced to a tune only we could hear over the low cacophonous roar of voices that bounced and rolled over you. Your delicate pearlescent fingers caressed the digital keys of the gaudy Sailor Moon phone that twinkled every alert and drew those gorgeous green eyes to the play it put on for you.

When I approached you, those soul-deep emeralds sparkled only for me. For the love we shared. You whispered ‘thank you,’ and I knew without a shadow of a doubt I was yours and you were mine.

Coffee; black. Blackened hash browns with cheese and two sides of sausage. Table 14—has children.

You didn’t see me standing there watching the man that sat across from you, that thing, speaking ill of you like you were a curse. As if you were the trash taken out at the end of a shift, acidic and lung-burning. You tried to pacify him, telling him the move would be good for you and that it wasn’t him but you. But I knew. You were telling him all that for us. So we could be together.

It was destiny.

Your tears sparkled in the setting light. I walked over to check on you, and the blinding smile you blessed me with had heat rush to my cheeks. Soon we would be together, and I would show you what true love was. I would help you forget the pig that stormed out an hour earlier. Those tears you shed so freely would become dry, and I would be all you would see. When you stood, throwing a smile at everyone that was meant for me, I knew you didn’t know better, but you would.

I met you out back, and you were startled when my hands grabbed your flesh. You were so strong, and I was proud of that strength. And when you collapsed into my arms, I pulled you into my chest. How perfectly we fit. Those luscious peach-colored lips parted most beautifully, and I couldn’t stop myself from tasting you. Tart blackberries exploded along my tastebuds, and I groaned. I scooped you into a bridal carry; you were light as a feather. I needed to get you home, or I wouldn’t last, and a public display of our love wasn’t something you or I wanted.

Rushing to the car, I strapped you in, and we headed home to explore the depths of our love uninterrupted.

When you woke, you fought at first, but it was over fast when I showed you how soft your flesh was under my skilled embrace. You parted so easily for me. A deep moan erupted from your throat as I pinched and caressed your ruby-red intestines, ensuring to break every so often to show the same attention to the gentle curve of your breasts. You writhed beneath me, groaning, as your beautiful emerald gems rolled back.

Small stack pancakes with strawberry syrup, two eggs over easy, and four coffees, black with sugar. Table 37—too rugged.

I turned your supple flesh into a freshly bloomed orchid with meticulous strokes. I watched every twitch. Listened to every whimper. And preened with every sharp, stuttered intake of breath until blissful silence hovered between us. My crimson-stained fingers caressed your pale neck, and I leaned in for our last embrace.

Large grits with bacon. Coffee; heavy cream, no sugar. Table 22—too ditzy.  

Your plot was in the best location, just under the giant sleeping willow that overlooked and protected my garden. It would keep you company when I was away. Its roots would grow around you, gracing you with an eternal embrace, always letting you know how loved you were.

As I lay you down, smiling at how the soft soil molded to your delicate insides, you gave one last smile and relaxed. I was so proud of the acceptance you showed.

Country fried steak and eggs. Large orange juice. Table 1—smells weird.

Dirt suited you, my gorgeous wife, as it bounced and spread, engulfing your martyred purple-tinted flesh. Gently, I patted the ground and gave you a final kiss, whispering courageous and loving words.

“Hey, table 4 was just sat. I need you to head that way,” Emory said, rushing about, headless and exasperated.

And there you sit, smiling at the beams of sun stippling through the water-stained window with your long black hair braided down your slender neck. I smile and head your way.

“Welcome to Emory’s Diner and Truck Pit. What can I get you, beautiful?”

You are my gift from fate.

You don’t know it yet, but you will.