Eels

The eels are best eaten alive. When consumed fresh, the chef explains, they are so sweet, so succulent. Their dreams taste bright and sharp.

 

A grisly flotilla is on the table. An eel lies pinned to each platter, long alien bodies stretched out and thrumming like live wires. They are slippery wet and thrash like anxious tongues. They are pale blue with inky bellies and shine ultramarine green and violet.

 

My lover clutches my hand in anticipation. She smiles at me, all teeth.

 

I wonder if they feel pain or if the sizzle of agony is too mammalian. I study the eel closest to me. Its eyes dart wildly. 

 

The servers fillet them with wicked little blades. At knifepoint, the flesh flakes into morsels that melt on our tongues and recall the salt sting of the ocean.

 

After we finish, we move on to their young. Little bowls teem with their small, restless bodies. They flash silver. The chef instructs us to eat several at once, bursting them between our teeth.

 

My lover does so, and it looks like her mouth is full of starlight. Later that night, I will feel her kiss writhing against my lips and find it both hideous and horribly alluring. When we move and push our bodies together and pull at each other with our fingers until we come apart, I will think about the eels blinking. And when we sleep, the bits of those eels that have coiled in our brains will make us dream about their lives. We will dream about being eaten alive, the exquisite pain. The last thing we will see will be our own faces, our sharp teeth, our hungry eyes.

 

When I wake the next morning, my face is wet. I am delicious, I am starving, I cannot stop.